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New England Magazine 






FRONTISPIECE— Copley-Plaza Hotel Tea Room 304 



THE GUARDIAN— A Serial, Chapter XIII . Frederick Orin Bartlett . . 320 

THE "EXTRY"— A Story .... Anna Brabham Osborn . . 321 

IBSEN IN AMERICA Ethel Syford . . . .329 


SUBMARINE SIGNAL .... Winthrop Packard . . . 335 


HOLIDAY CELEBRATION . . . Ralph Davol . . . .342 

Entered at Boston Post Office as second-class matter. Copyright, 1910, by New England Maga- 
zine Co.. $ 1 .75 A YEAR. Foreign Postage, seventy-five cents additional. 15 CENTS A NUMBER 

Pope Building, 221 Columbus Ave., Boston, Massachusetts 

^Beautiful %J\£ew England 

Studies of the Distinctive Features 
of New England Landscape 

New London Harbor 

AMONG the resources of New Eng- 
land that seem destined to a new 
and more appreciative measure 
of value, we should include the 
many smaller harbors which the varied 
contour of a rugged shore supplies. Such 
is the harbor of New London, Conn., 
at the mouth of the river Thames, il- 
lustrations of which we are using as our 
"Beautiful New England" feature this 
month. The recent meeting of the 
Waterways Convention in New London 
made known to a gathering of experts 
the technical advantages of this com- 
modious and safe little harbor. Its de- 
velopment commercially is certain to 
follow. For years it was a port of great 
importance, but latterly has been known 
principally to the seekers for recreation, 
and the beautiful waters of the river and 
bay are enlivened with the graceful lines 
and busy errands of yachts and small 
boats from early spring to late autumn. 
The Yale-Harvard regatta particularly 
gives an annual occasion for what might 
be called a dress parade of North Atlantic 
pleasure boats. 

But dotted with these miniature ves- 
sels or sheltering the great carriers of the 
coastwise trade, it will still be beautiful 
New London harbor, a perpetual delight 
to the lover of natural beauty. 




' ., 

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• .;: 


New England Magazine 

Vol. XLVIII SEPTEMBER, 1912 Number 1 

The Modern Dime Novel 


THE principal source of dentally from the circumstance 
trouble in the United of my having turned in a story 
States to-day is the in relation to a certain public 
sensational press, service corporation to a news- 
There is no slough that needs paper upon which I was doing 
the muck-rake so badly as do " space." My article was re- 
the muck-rakers, whose con- written in the office of the news- 
scienceless exploitation of dis- paper by men who had no 
coverable and nonexistent evils knowledge of the facts, and was 
for their own financial advan- perverted into a vicious attack 
tage has deceived the people. upon the corporation in ques- 
No branch of business in the tion. Nothing in this attack 
United States to-day is so dis- was founded on fact, but the 
honestly conducted as that of whole was built upon a deliber- 
these publications. One great ate perversion of the facts that 
self-styled "reform" newspaper I turned in. 

openly boasts that "fear is a Our sensational and so-called 

better producer of advertising popular magazines are the worst 

than love." They may escape publications that ever emanated 

the letter of the law against from the press in any country 

blackmailing, but they are black- or in any age of the world. They 

mailers none the less. I de- are worse than the so-called 

liberately declare and charge anarchistic literature of Russia, 

that strong-arm methods of se- for in that is a streak of moral 

curing money are common prac- earnestness gone mad; but in 

tice of many great and so-called this literature of ours there is no 

"popular" publications, impu- motive but the dollar that is 

dently, brazenly, and outrage- made out of it, and no con- 

ously posing as "friends of the science for truth beyond the 

people." necessity of keeping out of jail. 

My own first direct knowledge The circulation methods of 

of these practices arose acci- these publications are as vile and 




dishonest as the material that 
they publish. The advertiser, 
deceived by cunningly devised 
falsehoods, pays the bill for a 
circulation, not a tenth part of 
which is of the slightest value to 

These publications do not, 
year in and year out, contribute 
one line to the permanent litera- 
ture of the land. Their edit- 
ors do not know good litera- 
ture, and their publishers do 
not wish to print it. The state 
of literature in this country 
to-day is most deplorable, and 
largely because the big money is 
paid for material not fit to 
read and not fit to print. 

The public that chooses to 
stultify itself by reading this 
ribald, vaunting, boastful, 
empty, false, and hypocritical 
stuff is, of course, to blame for 
the poisoning of mind that fol- 
lows. It is time for an awak- 
ening. Without the false no- 
tions that have been inculcated 
during the last ten or fifteen 
years by these irresponsible and 
criminal purveyors of malice 
and falsehood, the present polit- 
ical situation could not exist. 
The attackers are themselves 
worse in their methods than the 
men whom they attack. 

Big corporations are essential 
to the conduct of the business 
of our day. To attack them is 
not progressive, but reactionary 
the extreme. Under the 


name of progress, demagogic- 
ally used for the selfish ends 
of selfish men, progress is being 

We are being asked to return 

from efficient to inefficient 
methods; but it will never be 

The first step in the mental 
revival of our country is to 
hound out of existence the vi- 
cious, muck-raking sensational 
magazines and newspapers. 

They make of us a spectacle 
for the amazement and ridi- 
cule of all mankind. There are 
wicked and dishonest men in 
places of power, in and out of 
corporations, but the present 
wild furore of attack upon all 
that represents the constructive 
work of the business brains of 
the nation for the past twenty- 
five years is the most uncalled 
for and cowardly defamation of 

One of these publications 
claims a circulation of two mil- 
lion copies, I understand. It 
is not to the credit of our coun- 
try if the claim is true; but 
there are still eighty-eight mil- 
lions who, by their own con- 
fession, do not read the worth- 
less sheet. The hope of the 
land is in those eighty-eight mil- 
lions who refuse to stultify 
their own intelligence. 

Such circulation statements 
are, of course, largely false. I 
learned, for example, of one 
magazine of which eight tons 
of unsold copies went to the 
junk dealer in a single month. 

Still, the total, actual cir-. 
culation is very large, particu- 
larly in the Middle West, the 
serious-minded youth of which 
section are mentally poisoned 
by it. At a distance from the 
actual workings of most large 



business, they imagine that our 
great corporations are a mass of 
corruption. They have been 
told so in luridly written, luridly 
illustrated, scream-covered pub- 
lications that are more vicious 
and mind-poisoning than any 
dime novels that were ever 

The facts about our great cor- 
porations are that they are con- 
ducted with an increasing care 
for the public interests, particu- 
larly by the younger group of 
corporation men who are mostly 
college-bred fellows of the very 
highest ideals. 

There has been greed and ex- 
ploitation, a survival of old 
business methods, to which the 
attackers would fatuously have 
us return. This has been by 
older men, trained in an earlier 
age, for the most part, while the 
younger generation of corpora- 
tion men represent a type of 
business man as much above 
anything the world has known 
before as modern science is 
above the astrology and alchemy 
of the past. The moment this 

truth is grasped, nine-tenths 
of the so-called "reform" wave 
collapses, for it has been rolled 
up by discontent aggravated by 
sensational falsehoods. What 
we need is a little more self- 
respect, a little more reverence 
for our own institutions and for 
the culture and brains of our 
own country. 

The advertising men of the 
country have a duty to per- 
form in this struggle for de- 
cency. As long as they will 
give advertising to mediums 
simply on the basis of big cir- 
culation, however obtained and 
however worthless, there will 
be a support for periodicals 
that are essentially business- 
destroying and credit-destroying 

Mr. Advertiser, you are not 
out buying circulation only, or 
you ought not to be. You 
ought also to be buying de- 
cency and supporting sound 
morals and healthy literature. 

This is not sentiment. It is 
absolutely essential to the busi- 
ness welfare of your clients. 

Picturesque Boston 

The line drawings for this article are used by permission of the H. B. Humphrey Advertising Co. 
Boston. The novel engraving effect is the work of Folsom & Sonergren, Boston 

ONLY three considerable cities 
in the United States can 
be truthfully characterized 
as picturesque, — Boston, 
Charleston, S. C, and New Orleans, 
each rendered so by the permanence 
of a tradition, and of these Boston is 
by far the most surprising, as the com- 
mercial prosperity and growth in 
population of this metropolis of New 
England might be expected to efface 
all but the most clamorous and in- 
sistent modernity. But the molding 
power of a great tradition can render 
the new as picturesque as the old. In 
Boston the tradition is one of restraint, 
inherited from generations of Puritan 
training. And that spirit of restraint 
is generally visible even in the street 
architecture of the city. Outsiders 
do not often fathom it, and they 
laugh at us, but they come again and 
again, drawn by a charm the secret 
of which they do not grasp. Boston 
is the least wearying of all our great 
cities, because it is almost certain to 
stop short of the extreme. Also, the 
city has no unsavory "tenderloin" to 
flaunt in the face of a disgusted nation 
and no commercial monstrosities for 
the creation of social and economic 
problems. There is still a touch of 
homely sincerity that is almost quaint 
in the directness and simplicity of the 
street life. 

It would require a very subtle 
pencil indeed to portray this prevailing 
tone of the city. But in addition to 
that, which is almost an atmosphere, 
there are many nooks and corners and 
buildings new and old that achieve 
the picturesque in a more direct and 
perceptible way. 

Trinity Church is, all told, the most 
picturesque building in the United 


States. Its great shadow-masses high 
above the pavement achieve the pic- 
turesque in spite of all shortcomings, 
and to a degree found in no other 
building in this country. 

The Boston water front is unique. 
In its byways are old wharves and dis- 
mantled hulks, while its main roads 
are alive with present-day shipping. 
We have interesting bridges and a 
tangle of coastwise traffic, fishing ves- 
sels, and the other side issues of mari- 
time life that relieve the ponderosity 
of the great tows and heavy barges that 
carry on the great trade of the nation. 

To be picturesque is, perhaps, the 
least important advantage of which 
a city might boast. And if it meant 
merely that the attrition and decays 
of time had wrought a mellowing and 
quaint effect, the characterization 
might even be undesirable. In that 
particular we are glad to have those 
who come to Boston expecting to 
find a city moss-grown and lichened 
with its quite respectable antiquity 
severely disappointed. 

But the quality of a fine tradition 
persisting through years of vast, al- 
most immeasurable change, that indi- 
cates the spirit of a citizenship that 
lives not for bread alone, may well 
awaken civic pride and claim the 
studious attention of the visitor. 

Because Boston is, and always has 
been, something more than a money- 
making and money-spending center, 
it will not be satisfied merely with the 
latest expression of modernity, but 
will always be looking for some touch 
of intrinsic excellence. 

There has always been in Boston a 
pride that has refused to accept the 
latest dicta of art or of business method 
without some reservations in favor of 






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the proven and the tried. Sometimes 
this spirit resists the encroachments 
of commerce and stays the hand of 
change. One comes upon the survivals 
of the past in unexpected places. 
Old lanes and pasture and garden 
paths of patriarchal colonial homes 
make a way for huge motor-trucks and 
the roar and congestion of traffic. 
Old churches and churchyards hold 
their own against office buildings and 

Upon its ultimate development the 
Charles River Basin will not prove 
to have been a mistake. The pos- 
sibilities of Huntington Avenue are 
sufficient to excite the coldest imagi- 
nation. It is in every way desirable 
that the business portion of the city 
should push its way into the district 
between Columbus Avenue and Wash- 
ington Street. Whether the changes that 
must surely occur in the transportation 
equipment of the city will effect this 
or not, only a few, if any, know. 
But the development of this desirable 
business section as such would cer- 
tainly tend to the preservation of 
Boston as Boston. Unquestionably 
the map of the city will change mate-: 
rially in the next ten or fifteen years, 
and it is devoutly to be wished that 
these changes may develop the South 
Boston water front and throw more 
of the current of traffic in that direc- 

Millions of dollars expended in the 
Back Bay district might thus be 
saved to do their natural work for the 
educational, artistic, and residential 
interests of the city. 

A subway entrance discharging pas- 
sengers at Park Square, or even Castle 
Square, would materially assist in the 
proper development of the neglected 
portion of our city. Retail business 
now overflowing its present territory 
could find a favorable location in the 
direction of the bulk of the city's 
actual population. 

The new custom house, when com- 
pleted with its unique and striking 
tower, will be quite the feature of the 
wholesale district, which seems to be 

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defined by conditions and to occupy of creating new centers of traffic 

its natural territory. But the retail distribution. 

district must be extremely sensitive to If it is possible to save the Back Bay 

transportation facilities and is capable for residential purposes it should be 

of direction by the very simple process done. 




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The Guardian 




Nat didn't have a very clear idea 
of what happened during the next 
three hours. The horse took his 
own gait, and Nat was aware of 
nothing but an interminable yellow 
road which unrolled beneath his hot 
eyes. He didn't come to himself 
until he saw the Moulton house 
— a neat white-painted structure a 
mile this side of St. Croix. He 
drove up into the yard and in some 
way maneuvered his weak legs to the 
ground. He stumbled to the front 
door and knocked. In a few seconds 
he found himself facing Mrs. Moulton, 
who looked more like Julie's sister than 
her mother. Resting his hand on the 
door-frame, he moistened his lips. 

"I want to see Julie," he announced. 

"Why, Nat," exclaimed Mrs. Moul- 
ton at the sight of his fever-laden eyes, 
"what's the matter with you?" 

She hesitated a moment and then 
added quickly, "Come into the sitting- 

He followed her and sank into the 
first chair he saw. 

"Now what's the trouble?" de- 
manded Mrs. Moulton with motherly 

"I want to see Julie," he repeated 

She studied him a moment and 
hurried out. From where he sat Nat 
could hear the ticking of the kitchen 
clock. It ticked ten thousand times 
before Mrs. Moulton returned. She 
was plainly disturbed. 

"Julie says — she can't come down," 
she informed him with evident re- 

He lifted his head. 

"Is she sick?" 

"She twisted her ankle yesterday," 

320 * Begun in the February Number 

she answered, as though glad of some 
excuse for the girl's conduct. 

"Is she laid up — in bed ? " he asked. 

"No, she's dressed," answered Mrs. 
Moulton. "But — she can't walk 
very well." 

Nat rose to his feet. He was very 
wobbly. His lips came together. 

"Then," he said with decision, "I'll 
go up to her." 

He started towards the door. Half- 
way there he fell in his tracks and lay 
where he fell. 

'Gene Proposes 

THE kitchen of the Elite Cafe" 
was located in the basement. 
It did not differ much from 
the orthodox conception of 
hell, except that in place of sulphur 
fumes the air was reeking heavy with 
the greasy sweat of ham and eggs. 
Yet the lady who prepared this spe- 
cialty, for which the restaurant had in a 
way become locally famous, appar- 
ently thrived in the atmosphere. She 
was portly to the point of waddling. 
She looked as though, if she remained a 
second over-long by the stove, she 
too might sizzle off into a smudge of 
thick blue smoke. It may have been 
to save herself from this danger that 
from time to time she raised to her 
thick lips a can of foamy amber- 
colored liquid and drank deep and 
long. Whatever the contents did to 
cool her body, they served only to add 
fire to her temper. 'Gene, who in a 
dirty white apron stood beneath a 
dim gas jet at the farther end of the 
room bending over a sink full of dishes, 
kept one eye upon her. Mrs. Hanri- 
han was in the habit of first calling 
{Continued on page J45) 
Copyright, 1912, Small, Maynard & Co. 

The "Extry" 


" ' The noise of history is made by the clatter of wooderf'sabots going up the stairs 
and the rustle of the silk shoes coming down.' — Balzac." 

— From "The Four Hundred," Pearson's Magazine. 



iHIS also will pass,'" quoted 
Frederick from the carved 
Arabic motto in the living- 
room. His voice was wist- 
ful and his eyes, searching and appeal- 
ing, tried to look into hers. 

But Virginia's ears were dulled to calls 
for sympathy, and her eyes looked 
mutinously past the appeal for under- 
standing. She yielded unrespon- 
sively to her husband's good-by kiss. 
The door closed. Frederick was gone, 
rushing to catch the commuters' car. 

"Fitz it, mamma," pouted little 
Stuart, hopping out into the hall, hold- 
ing up one chubby leg, whose stocking 
had slipped its leash and dangled over 
one stubbed shoe. 

This was further evidence of the low 
estate of the Bradens, and it fanned 
Virginia's resentment like a freshening 
breeze. There had been only little 
five-year-old Eugenie to play the part 
of nursemaid to her baby brother this 
morning. Maggie was gone and Hul- 
dah was hobbling painfully about in 
the clutches of rheumatism. Virginia 
had found it necessary to go into the 
kitchen herself and play the part of 
second girl. 

Little Stuart's warm baby softness 
pressed against Virginia as she ar- 
ranged the refractory stocking sup- 
porter brought no comforting thrill 
this morning. She had fought against 
it, but the battle was plainly going 
against her. This terrible crushing 
fate that had been stalking her for 

months, closing in upon her, suffocating 
er, aging her, was slowly but surely 
taking the likeness of Frederick. The 
truth was settling home with a weight 
that wedged her tight in a galling 
groove. She should have married in 
her own class. She had not the grace 
and courage to be a poor man's wife. 

Aunt Helen had tried to warn her. 
"The Poindexter women have never 
been good pioneers," this blue-blooded 
aunt had pointed out. 

"Frederick is one of nature's noble- 
men," she had admitted. " He'd make 
a fine ancestor," she laughed in her 
subdued aristocratic way. "The Bra- 
dens are in the stage of the wooden 
sabots clattering up the stairs." 

"And the Poindexters that of the 
silk shoes rustling down," Virginia 
had flashed with spirit. 

"The Poindexter and Braden stand- 
ards are so different," Aunt Helen had 
insisted. "You know how Tennyson 
puts it, 'As the husband is the wife is. 
You shall lower to his level day by 

"What rot!" Virginia's young 
brother Spencer had exploded at this 
philosophy. "You take it from me, sis, 
if ever you get to the level of Frederick 
Braden, you'll have to take an aero- 

But in these last hard weeks those 
condemned Brewster millions had 
blazed out in Virginia's storm-filled 
heavens, drawing in their train all the 
soft ease, luxury, and prestige her 
Poindexter blood was demanding as 
its right. After all, Ned Brewster, 




with his little watery eyes forever 
blinking behind eyeglasses, his re- 
treating chin, and his tiresome "don't 
chee know, "would have been a mere 
bagatelle. People in that walk of life 
did not intrude upon each other. 

Her eyes rested on the children. 
Stuart's smooth little chin, whose 
nascent strength the soft baby lines 
could not hide, was raised to Eugenie, 
who with sweet elder sister patience 
was helping him build a wonderful 
block castle. Her precious, peerless 
children 1 they might have been, but 
then there would have been no chil- 
dren. And there certainly would have 
been maids. Virginia's mind swung 
back to the main grievance. 

Frederick surely had been high- 
handed. But Eugenie was her father's 
rare blossom. He guarded her as a 
sacred flame upon which no profane 
breath might blow. When he found 
the maid, Maggie, filling his little 
daughter's mind with the importance 
of the over-the-right-shoulder view 
of the new moon and the proper shivers 
with which to greet a black cat crossing 
one's path and kindred occultism, his 
wrath fell terrible and instantaneous. 
There had been no word passed be- 
tween the husband and wife of a new 
maid. There was the sting. The 
Bradens could not afford a second maid. 
Virginia's active imagination saw them 
sliding on down to the charwoman 

Huldah would say, "Maggie ain't 
much of a head-piece, but she can be 
hands and feet for me when the rheu- 
matiz is bad." 

Now, Virginia was reminded that 
she must go to the kitchen and be 
hands and feet for Huldah, for the 
"rheumatiz" was at its worst. Dear 
loyal Huldah, handed down from 
Aunt Helen, neither wages in arrears 
nor rheumatism could drive her from 
her service. 

She found that Miss Lucy had run in 
in her neighborly way. "I says to 
mother," she explained, "I'll just run 
over and help Huldy a mite. I see 
that triflin' Maggie goin' las' night." 

"Gracious," she rattled on in her 

cheery, gossipy way, as she tossed up a 
pie paste, "but Paxton's gettin' some 
gay. Them Gerald Hamilton Fischers 
that's took the Towers is about the 
swellest that's struck town in my 
time. Ellen Weed was in tellin' 
mother about their doin's las' night. 
Ellen helped with the servin' — flowers, 
music, a caterer from town with all 
sorts of Frenchy dishes and automo- 
biles banked all around the block." 

Virginia winced. She could re- 
member when the Gerald Hamilton 
Fischers had come out of nowhere and 
taken a house on the avenue, and Mrs. 
Gerald had ambitiously started in to 
break into the exclusive avenue so- 
ciety. Aunt Helen and Virginia had 
been of the inner blue-blooded coterie 
that had opposed her obtruding ad- 
vance with all the arts known to the 

"But they've got on," reflected 
Virginia resentfully. 

The Towers was a splendid old 
place, built in boom days by a multi- 
millionaire steel magnate. Virginia 
did not know that the silk shoes of the 
magnate's descendants had rustled so 
near the bottom of the stairs that they 
were glad to let the old place, so long 
idle, for the mere promise of a song. 

Here were the Bradens getting old — 
OLD. They were already in their 
thirties. If they were ever going to 
get on, they ought to have achieved 
their car by this time. A subscrip- 
tion opera box ought to be possible. 
And here they could not afford a sec- 
ond maid. Round and round whirled 
Virginia's rebellious brain. 

She began to understand how women 
grew shrill-voiced and shrewish. Per- 
haps the flat foot was not always a 
sign of the caste one was born to. Bar- 
gain-counter shoes could break down 
the most patrician arch. Two-year- 
old costumes remodeled at home 
could successfully break up the long 
aristocratic lines of the proudest figure. 

Oh, she was tired of it — tired of it all! 
"Economy," "cut down expenses," 
"weather the storm," how she hated 
the phrases. There was always some- 
thing to weather. 



She had fatuously supposed she 
knew the full meaning of the word 
"economy. " Aunt Helen's annuity had 
been most inelastic. In the avenue 
mansion it had taken planning and 
contriving to keep up the respecta- 
bility due the house. But economy 
with the meaning Frederick Braden 
infused into it these last weeks was a 
wholly different brand from the avenue 

"Give me five years," Frederick had 
glowed banally in the first flush of 
having won her over the Brewster mil- 
lions, "and I'll build you a palace on 
Easy Street." 

True those first six years the wooden 
sabots had seemed to be clattering 
sturdily up the stairs. But now, in the 
seventh, there had come a dismaying 
halt. Hard times hovered like a 
hundred-taloned vulture over the fear- 
struck business world. Virginia knew 
nothing of business upheavals. Finan- 
cial storms had passed unfelt over the 
avenue house, riding snug and taut 
anchored securely by the Poindexter 
annuity. Virginia only dimly com- 
prehended what Frederick was meeting 
every day in the seething maelstrom of 
business in the city. Frederick, chiv- 
alrous and self-reliant, shook off the 
day's load at the threshold of his home 
and was usually the care-free, jolly 
comrade in the family circle. Of late 
the worry lines would show through a 
little. But Virginia was not a dis- 
cerning person; and her nerves, for 
months on a rack of increasing tension, 
had begun to break. It must be ad- 
mitted she had grown a little self- 

These first years had been ideal 
enough. "Move to the country and 
retrench while things are coming our 
way," had a right romantic ring. 

Paxton had once had ambitions. 
The wealthy and the near-wealthy 
had thought to make it a fashionable 
retreat. Some moneyed people had 
laid out fine estates there. But a cog 
slipped somewhere. Paxton could not 
be made fashionable. The great ones 
gradually drifted away, leaving their 
places to be snapped up by discerning 

young fellows like Frederick Braden, 
who were not afraid of being out of the 

The fine old house was set in a big 
tree-filled yard. The wide branches of 
x the natural trees were flung out pater- 
nally. Virginia reveled in the big 
rooms of classic lines, and the mam- 
moth fireplaces put in everywhere, 
covering with their radiant glow the 
deficiencies of the antiquated furnace. 
She filled the house with Aunt Helen's 
old mahogany of undoubted worth, 
passed down by a long line of Poin- 
dexters of diminishing grandeur. In- 
deed, the executors had found little 
back of proud Aunt Helen's prestige 
save these and the family traditions. 

It made a pleasant retreat in which 
to wait for things to "come our way." 
Virginia, wearied by the ceaseless, sense- 
less whirl of the avenue, its petty am- 
bitions and rivalries, its straining after 
an estate always just a little beyond 
reach, had settled down restfully, 
blissfully in it. How full those first 
days had been! Frederick had always 
bewailed that his brief practical edu- 
cation had left no time for what he 
called the "culture studies." In the 
long winter evening he took these up. 
Virginia's education was supposed to 
have included the culture studies, 
but she found it necessary to put in 
long hours at a grinding review to keep 
pace with Frederick's virile mind. 

It was lying on his back on the old 
Colonial settle before the blazing open 
fire, that first winter, reading the old 
classics in the sing-song rhythm dear 
to the old poets, that he came upon 
Horace's description of an ideal home. 

"Why, Virginia," he cried, ecstat- 
ically, "we have it right here. This 
describes our place to a T, except the 

Together they polished the trans- 
lation until it stood: "This was ever 
the extent of my wishes; a portion of 
ground not over large, in which is a 
garden, and a fountain with its con- 
tinual stream close to my house, and a 
little woodland besides." 

For a while Virginia had been con- 
tent to think this was the extent of her 



wishes, too. The babies came and 
filled her life to repletion. The long 
days had slipped enchantingly by with 
fairy lore, mythology, and the babies. 
And the evenings were an untiring de- 
light with music, poetry, French — 
they took up French after the babies 
came — and Frederick. 

But of late the old thirst had come 
back to be in things and to have things, 
particularly to have things. The lust 
of possession consumed her soul as 
things seemed to be slipping from her 
grasp. The world was going on with- 
out them. The Bradens were drop- 
ping to the rank of nobodies. That 
was the most poignant drop of aloes. 

Virginia was not wholly devoid of 
sense. Her seven years with Fred- 
erick Braden had not been without 
effect on her character. She recog- 
nized this mood as unworthy and 
resolved to make one last stand 
against it. 

Her brother Spencer had a prescrip- 
tion for "blue funk" compiled from 
various philosophers of his admiration. 
It ran thus: "Put on your best 
clothes and walk; hold your chest up, 
your chin in, the crown of your head 
high, and step like a thoroughbred." 

Her best clothes were only a two- 
year-old brown suit, brought up to date 
by lengthened revers and new but- 
tons, but Great-aunt Anne's rich Rus- 
sian sables remodeled last winter and 
a chic sable cap fashioned by her own 
hands added a distingue touch to her 
costume. Tripping along, her two 
pretty children by her side, — Eugenie, 
like her mother, a study in brown, re- 
lieved by white tippet and muff, the 
gold of little Stuart's curly head and 
the blue of his eyes brought out by the 
natty crimson coat and cap, — Mrs. 
Braden certainly looked the well-con- 
ditioned, satisfied young matron. 

The tonic of the winter air, the 
effervescence of the children's spirits, 
the consciousness of being well dressed, 
the approving glances of the passers-by 
did their work. Virginia's native good 
sense asserted itself. It was not a bad 
old world after all. She supposed 
this tiresome old financial storm would 

"pass" as Frederick's motto put it. 
These mottoes were a hobby of 
Frederick's. He had cut them out 
of the solid wood in the long winter 
evenings, and they were everywhere 
about the house unconsciously mold- 
ing the family character. 

Her usual amiability had quite re- 
asserted itself by the time she had 
reached the litle general store where she 
was a favorite customer. To-day she 
was surprised to see the attending 
clerk drop his order-book and pencil 
and rush to open the door for some one 

Virginia turned with curiosity to see 
what great personage was honoring 
Paxton with his presence. She stood 
face to face with Mrs. Gerald Hamil- 
ton Fischer. The lady advanced in all 
the languorous elegance of costly furs 
and willow plumes, and her electric 
brougham waited at the door. Just 
an eye-flicker betrayed recognition, 
then the advancing gray eyes steeled. 

Virginia, in her rebound from gloom 
and her restored confidence in the 
goodness of existing states, was quite 
ready to take even Mrs. Gerald 
Hamilton Fischer into the radiance of 
her good fellowship. She had begun 
to suspect she had been a frightful 
snob in those old avenue days. Then, 
too, a flood of sunny memories rushed 
over her at the sight of this link with 
the happy past. 

She advanced with cordially ex- 
tended hand and frank friendliness in 
her face. But she reckoned without 
Mrs. Gerald Hamilton Fischer. The 
moment was fraught with memories for 
her, too. Those avenue days could 
furnish her pictures of ignoring shoul- 
ders turned inpoliteobliviousness of her 
presence, and of unseeing glances that 
swept over and through her as if she 
had been a grain of dust in the atmos- 
phere. Her hour had struck. 

Her malicious gray eyes traveled 
leisurely over Virginia from head to 
foot, missing no detail of her re- 
modeled-at-home outfitting. "Pa'~ 
don," she drawled, "have we met 
befo'?" ^ 

Virginia was divided between a 



desire to shriek with laughter and 
stamp with rage. In the end her 
Poindexter blood turned to indigo 
in her veins. Her face became a 

patrician mas 

clear-cut cameo. 

For her Mrs. Gerald Hamilton Fischer 
ceased to exist. It was as if a trouble- 
some fly had brushed her cheek. In 
unruffled calm she turned to the clerk 
and completed her order in utter ob- 
liviousness of the flushing, flashing, 
gnashing presence behind her. Then, 
marshaling her pretty children before 
her, she left the store a true grande 
dame. But the incident rankled. Not 
that she was touched by Mrs. Gerald 
Hamilton Fischer's attempted cut, 
that was too ridiculous, but that she, 
Virginia Poindexter Braden, should be 
in a position to be subjected to such a 

So it was finally Mrs. Gerald Hamil- 
ton Fischer who was responsible for 
Virginia's remark at the breakfast- 
table the next morning. That lady 
would, no doubt, have rejoiced could 
she have known of the whole bundle 
of straws that had come tumbling onto 
Virginia's burden that only needed 
the proverbial one straw more to make 
it a crushing load. 


"Nescit vox missa reverti." — ■ 

Next morning Huldah was worse. 
She was unable to rise. Virginia pre- 
pared breakfast with her own hands 
to a rising storm of mutiny. The 
women of her family had never pre- 
pared breakfasts. 

Aunt Helen had been right. The 
Poindexter and Braden standards were 
irreconcilably different. Frederick 
could see no tragedy in this maidless 
condition. His mother had "done her 
own work." All the women of his 
family had managed their households 
without maids. Why should his wife 
expect anything different? 

Virginia's whole world was out of 
joint. The air was a thick powdery 
mass of frozen fog through which the 
sun shone, a distant blur of light. 

The penetrating cold of the atmosphere 
clutched one with a chattering chill 
that belied the reading of the ther- 
mometer, as it can in those north- 
western climates. The puny column 
x of heat from the furnace registers rose 
futilely into the frigidity of the dining- 
room. The fire in the fireplace was 
not laid. Fuel had to be conserved. 
The napery was not spotless. Laundry 
bills had to be kept down. The chil- 
dren appeared at table with buttons 
awry and hair parts crooked. There 
was no maid to attend to their toilets. 

Frederick came to the table with a 
face marked deep with lines. They 
meant a sleepless night. But his jaw 
was set at its squarest and his eye 
glinted steely. It was a rallying of 
all his forces to charge the last ditch. 
His clean linen, carefully knotted tie, 
well-brushed clothes, and his well- 
groomed appearance throughout were a 
booting and spurring for the last 
struggle. To-day the Putman Con- 
solidated deal must be "landed." 
And with the advance money from 
this the claim of Grindley-Hunt must 
be met or it was all over with the firm 
of Frederick Braden Company, engi- 
neers, founders, and machinists. And 
all the gallant struggle of the past 
months would have been in vain. The 
receiver's big lettered canvas would 
be stretched across the doors and win- 
dows. Frederick had seen it all plainly 
in his troubled sleep. Defeat, the 
dragon with whom he had had many a 
bout and always worsted, would get 
him at last. 

But all this was lost on Virginia. 
Her eyes were "holden" by her own 
woes. External sights were shut out 
by an internal vision, which kept 
thrusting itself upon her mental screen, 
of Mrs. Gerald Hamilton Fischer in the 
well-appointed Towers. She supposed 
it was well appointed, surrounded by 
well-trained, deferential servants, pre- 
sumably deferential and well trained. 

Out of the black depths of bitter- 
ness in which she was wallowing she 
spoke, "The Bradens might as well 
give it up," — her aristocratic nose 
sniffed ever so slightly, it was blue 



with the cold, — "and acknowledge 
themselves k pore folks.'" 

Then Frederick's endurance snapped. 
A man's burden can reach the one 
straw more stage, too. He gulped his 
coffee and pushed back his breakfast 
untasted. In the chill hall he made 
read}" for the car. 

"You may as well know," he ob- 
served, as he shook himself into his 
top-coat, "if the Putman Consoli- 
dated, doesn't come through to-day, 
Grindley-Hunt will get in theirs and it 
will all be over with the Bradens. It 
may even be the 'porehouse.' But 
my insurance will provide for you and 
the children. There's no suicide 

clause in my policy." The door closed 
sharply. He was gone. 

Virginia sat in a frozen terror that 
yet pricked through with needles of 
flame, painful as returning blood to a 
frost-whitened limb. What had she 
done? Gradually she became con- 
scious that she was staring at the motto 
hanging on the dining-room wall, 
"Nescit vox missa reverti." It stood 
out in letters of fire and she quailed 
before it as had Nebuchadnezzar before 
the handwriting on the wall. She re- 
called what she had called Frederick's 
painfully literal translation, "The 
sent voice knows not to return." He 
always liked the literal rendering. 
"That's the way you get at the inner 
terseness of those old fellows," he 
would say. 

\\ hat would she not give to recall 
those wild words of the breakfast- 
table, but "The word once uttered 
can never be recalled," that bit of 
carved wood admonished her with 

She dragged her palsied limbs to 
the window. Frederick's figure was 
still in sight. It blended with the 
crowd of commuters as only one more 
bent shabby form hurrying to hurl 
itself into the vortex of business in the 
city. How pathetically worn and 
lonely it looked with the disheartened 
droop to the shoulders. Her heart 
went out in a great surge of love for 
this her husband, the father of her 
children, her incomparable children. 

The scales fell from her eyes. She 
saw him standing alone in a great 
crisis and she, self-absorbed, had not 
known. His devotion, his self-sacrifice, 
his need of the helpmeet who had 
failed him, stood out clearly before her. 
Now he had gone, stung to the quick 
by her thoughtless words, leaving 
behind him those awful inexplicable 
sentences! A movement in the kitchen 
broke the spell upon her. Hul- 
dah had come down and was limping 
painfully about in the old felt slipper. 

Virginia threw off the terrorizing 
numbness that held her and rushed 
into the kitchen. "O Huldah!" she 
moaned, throwing herself into the 
arms of the faithful old serving- 
woman, who had been her mother- 
confessor since childhood, and she 
poured out on the sympathizing 
shoulder all the unhappy story. 

Huldah listened attentively to the 
broken sentences. She understood 
much better than her mistress the signs 
of the business world and she "sensed" 
the gravity of the crisis in Frederick 
Braden's affairs much more fully than 
his wife. But the allusions to the in- 
surance and the suicide clause she 
scouted. She knew the hard good 
sense of her Mr. Frederick. 

"What did he mean?" wailed Vir- 

"Not a thing, honey," assured the 
penetrating Huldah, smoothing the 
heaving shoulder, "except that he had 
not slept well and some old business 
tangle was botherin' him." 

"But he didn't eat any breakfast," 
mourned Virginia. 

"Yes, that was bad," agreed Huldah 
soberly. She believed in the support- 
ing power of a full stomach. "But 
it is up to us to make it up to him. 
We'll get him a dinner he'll have to eat. 
And what if the old business should go 
squush — which it won't, you trust 
Mr. Frederick for that — Mr. Fred- 
erick could always get his fine salary. 
Don't you be lookin' for no poorhouse, 
nor be afraid of no clause in any in- 
surance policy. And don't you think 
twice o' that Mrs. Gerald Hamilton 
Fischer. They do say it's a life of it 



they're havin' at the Towers. They 
come out here to run away from their 
city creditors, and they are in knee- 
deep to every tradesman in Paxton 
already. The Bradens hain't got a 
pack o' tradesmen houndin' 'em any- 
how," Huldah finished loyally. 

"But what if he shouldn't come 
home?" trembled Virginia. Frederick 
had never left home in displeasure 

"Ah, get out," scoffed Huldah, 
brusquely, "he'll be home before we 
get this house to rights, if we don't 
get to work." Huldah moved off 
briskly, but a twinge of pain brought 
her down with drawn face and moist 

It was clear to Huldah that she 
would have to take charge of affairs. 
After a moment's deliberation she 
limped to the telephone and called up 
Mrs. Gilchrist, who often helped out 
with domestic tangles at the Braden 

An hour later from her throne in the 
padded rocker with her swollen foot 
on a stool she was directing things. 
The house was garnished from top to 
bottom. Fires were laid in the open 
fireplaces in defiance of fuel con- 
servation. Miss Lucy ran in with a 
blooming hyacinth and stayed to polish 
silver and rub furniture. 

Virginia laid the dinner-table with 
her finest damask. Mother Braden's 
quaint old Chelsea china was brought 
out and her steel-bladed knives with 
their horn handles heavily mounted 
with silver. Several times she called 
up the office. But each time she got 
the same answer, "Mr. Braden is not 
in." She did not have any clear idea 
of what she wanted to say. She just 
wanted to hear Frederick's voice. 
The sharp blade of those last words 
was swinging round and round in her 
mind, cutting cruelly. Each time she 
turned from the telephone a nameless 
dread clutched her heart. She could 
only find relief from it in activity. 

She dressed the children in their 
smartest frocks, and put on her own 
daintiest, most frivolous house gown. 
But still it was hours until six. Mrs. 

Gilchrist, fussing amiably about under 
Huldah's direction, suggested another 
escape from herself into activity. 
Frederick always kept a small sum de- 
posited in the Paxton bank to be 
drawn on for household expenses. 
This had shrunk of late, but there was 
still a margin to her credit. She would 
run out and make a draw before closing 
time, that Mrs. Gilchrist's wage might 
be ready for her. 

As she drew near the bank she be- 
came aware that a line of men, women, 
and children overflowed its door, ex- 
tended down the stone steps and strag- 
gled along the pavement. It was a 
silent line waiting in stolid patience. 
Virginia, wondering, took a place at the 
end of the line. 

"A run on the bank," some one in 
front informed her. A grim, orderly 
determination pervaded the ranks. 
Every' little while some one would 
come down the stone steps and the 
human chain would jolt along a link. 

"They're still paying out," her in- 
formant in front passed back. 

Two men closed in behind Virginia. 
"This is serious business," offered one. 

" Can they stand it?" questioned the 

"I doubt it," returned the first. 

"These are strenuous times," gen- 
eralized the second. "Some concern is 
gasping out its last breath in the hands 
of a receiver every day." 

"There are those, though, that are 
gorging on the carcasses. Grindley- 
Hunt are fattening all right." 

Virginia's heart skipped a beat at 
that name. 

"They are low-down sharks," gritted 
he of the philosophical turn; "they 
pose as mighty benevolent, coming 
forward with ready money for the 
man facing bankruptcy. Then they 
get their cinch in the payment — ten- 
days-after-demand clause. When their 
victim gets in the tightest squeeze 
they come smirkingly up with their 
demand for payment. 'Sorry, but 
unforeseen circumstances have arisen/ 
They really must insist." 

"I hear they have young Braden 
on the hip." 



Virginia's breath came fast and she 
strained her ears to lose no word. 
These sentences stamped themselves 
on her brain. 

"It's a shame." 

"He's a fine fellow." 

"A few thousands would save him." 

"In other times there'd be many to 
give him a lift." 

"But he'll be closed up unless — " 

A howl of rage and despair swept 
the line a moment ago so orderly and 
quiet. It broke instantly into a 
pushing, shrieking mob. Virginia was 
pushed off the lowest step, which she 
had gained. 

"They've stopped paying out," was 
the wail that rose above the clamor. 

The commuters' train slowed up at 
the end of the line. A newsboy swung 
off, one shoulder hitched high in sup- 
port of the heavy sack. "Extry, 
extry, all about the suicide," he was 

Virginia stumbled down the street, 
her brain a swirling merry-go-round; 
the sentences she had overheard were 
the swift bobbing cars. She caught 
at them, trying to comprehend their 
import, but they went bobbing on on 
their dizzy round, eluding her grasp. 
Through it all went the monotonous 
call of the newsboy, " Extry, extry, a — II 
a — bout the suicide." It rattled on 
Virginia's tympanum without making 
a distinct impress on her brain. There 
was just a subconscious shiver of an 
added horror. 

At a corner she stopped and grasped 
a telephone pole, trying to collect her- 
self. "A few thousands would save 
him," stood out in distinction amid 
the inner chaos. Why had not she 
known? The Poindexter jewels, lying 
in safety deposit, were worth many 
thousands. W T as it too late? 

The two men had stopped at her 
corner. Evidently they were waiting 
for the returning car. They were still 
deep in conversation. 

"It is a sad case," one was saying, 
"they do say his wife's ambitions are 
at the bottom of it." 

Then the newsboy's cry forced itself 
through Virginia's abstraction. From 

far down the street came his legend, 
" Ex — try, ex — try, — house closes doors 
— suicide, ex — try, ex — try, a — 11 
a — bout the sui — cide." 

Virginia reeled. That nameless ter- 
ror that had been clutching at her all 
day took form now. A dead cer- 
tainty settled upon her. She did not 
need further corroboration from the 
conversation of the men, but it came 
to her in sentences that burned and 

"He lived here." 

"Did his insurance have a suicide 

"I believe not. Oh, doubtless she'll 
get enough to set her up," one flung 
back directly at her, it seemed to Vir- 
ginia. Then the car came along and 
the men went out to signal it. 

Something snapped in Virginia's 
brain. Something was set a-beating 
terrifically in her breast. The one 
thought that possessed her was to get 
to the newsboy and get a paper and 
see it all in black and white. She 
gathered up her light skirts and ran. 
She panted along, making little prog- 

From a side street now came the 
newsy's refrain, "Ex — try, ex — try, 
a — II a — bout the suicide." She 
turned short to follow up the cry and 
ran directly into a man hurrying from 
the other direction. His armful of 
bundles scattered as he caught her. 
With startled eyes she looked up into 
the earnest ones of Frederick Braden. 
Virginia promptly swooned. 

When she began to slowly drift back 
to consciousness she had a delicious 
sense of being immersed in a sea of 
peace. Some terrible weight had 
drifted off from her. She had not 
strength or will to try to remember 
what it was. A deep joy that it was 
gone permeated her. Her tired eyes 
flickered open just a dreamy slit. 
The crackling open fire, the two chil- 
dren kneeling, awestruck little statues, 
on the hearth rug, Mrs. Gilchrist 
moving away with towel and a basin 
registered themselves on her mental 
plate. Through a dream haze she 
saw Frederick chafing her hands and 



Huldah arranging some flowers in a 
vase — yes, they were orchids. Then 
she drifted off to sleep. 

When she waked her mind had 
cleared. Suddenly she remembered. 
She turned to Frederick quietly, 
quickly. "Did we fail?" she asked, 
quite unexpectedly. 

Frederick blinked and straightened 
up in quick relief. "Fail!" he echoed, 
"well I guess not. The Putman 
Consolidated came through to the 
tune of one hundred thousand and 
there will be twice as much more 
when the new factories are ready to 
equip. Believe me," he chuckled, 
"Grindley-Hunt are one abject pulp 
of apology. You can begin planning 
that palace on Easy Street any old 
time now." 

"I never want any house but this. 
' This was ever the extent of my de- 
sires,' " she smiled up at him. "We'll 
install a modern heating plant, and 

put in the 'fountain with continual 
stream close to my house,' and this 
will be quite ideal. We'll make Pax- 
ton fashionable. But, Frederick," 
with another flash of memory, "who 
was the suicide?" 

Frederick's face sobered. "Ah, poor 
fellow," he said, sadly, "it need not 
have been, if his wife had stood by 
him as mine did by me." 
_ "But who, Frederick, who?" in- 
sisted Virginia, excitedly. 

"Jerry Fischer," he answered, in a 
low voice. 

"Gerald Hamilton Fischer?" de- 
manded Virginia aghast, having risen 
on one elbow. Frederick nodded. 

" Oh, Frederick, I've been so wicked !" 
Virginia dropped back, weeping vio- 

Frederick, wholly at a loss to ac- 
count for so much emotion, wondering, 
tried to comfort and quiet her. 

Ibsen in America 


IN the introduction to his admirable 
work,* Professor Heller says: 
"The aim of showing the impor- 
tance of Henrik Ibsen, both as a 
poet and a moral teacher, suggests at 
the outset a definite and emphatic 
assertion that he was a highly potent 
factor in modern life in both these 
spiritual functions." He declares that 
the recognition of the great Scandina- 
vian has been slower in this country 
than elsewhere, and suggests that this 
tardiness in the acceptance of one of 
the greatest men of modern times is 
due to our luckless democratic way of 
looking at all things through the child- 
ish eyes of the majority, the same habit 
to which we owe our national deprecia- 
tion of art and our backwardness in so 
many phases of intellectual life. Again, 
he says that we must be scrupulously 

*Henrik Ibsen: Plays and Problems. By 
Otto Heller. Houghton, Mifflin Company, 

careful to distinguish between Ibsen 
the moralist and Ibsen the poet, and 
that the cause of our playgoers' in- 
dignant dissatisfaction with Henrik 
Ibsen is simply the terrible moral 
earnestness of the man. Finally, that 
his excuse for offering this new study 
of Henrik Ibsen to the English- 
speaking public is grounded in a con- 
viction that England and the United 
States are also becoming "Ibsenreif," 
ready to listen to the message of the 
greatest dramatic poet of our age, 
and one of its foremost social preachers. 
Later on in the book, Professor Heller 
says that Ibsen's popularity must needs 
suffer from the fact that concealment 
or even caution was absent from the 
character of his work and that he did 
not belong to the literary prettifiers 
of the stern facts of life. 

I am afraid that it is only from a dis- 
tanced perspective that Professor Hel- 
ler could possibly imagine that we are 



becoming "Ibsenreif." He seems to 
continually assert that among us 
Ibsen is coming unto his own at last. 

I believe that is far from the truth. 
We put on our critical spectacles some 
years back, for the purpose of taking 
Ibsen's measure. It was at practically 
the same hour at which Europe was 
doing the same thing. We are not so 
far behind the literary times when it 
comes to being "up to date" as some 
people would like to insinuate. Also, 
we wear our critical spectacles with 
full as much seriousness as does the 
Continent. Mary Shaw, Mrs. Patrick 
Campbell, and later Nazimova did 
what they could to let us see what 
Hedda Gabler and Nora and Mrs. 
Alving acted like; several prominent 
American universities (mostly West- 
ern) inserted an enthusiastic "course" 
in Ibsen, and we talked the "get-right- 
down-and-face-facts" theory until it 
wore itself threadbare. The situa- 
tion seems to be that, after all, the 
final "rating," the final placing of a 
modern work or a modern author is not 
left by us Americans to the set of 
dirty-collared Socialists and artist- 
garret-dwellers, who might be called 
the American inertia. This is the 
"set" with whom Ibsen became popu- 
lar. Almost every European country 
is more infected with these parasites 
than America has yet become. Hence 
Europe became more "Ibsenreif " than 
did we. With us this state of enthu- 
siasm over the cranky old Norwegian 
was left to the watery-eyed, near- 
sighted individuals who wear black 
Windsor ties and a slouch hat and 
who lodge around the Columbus 
Avenue district of Boston and Wash- 
ington Square and the East Side of 
New York. They are as ill-kempt 
mentally as physically and breathe 
forth a discontented scowly distemper 
as they roam forth from their beds at 

II a.m. to live for a whole day upon a 
couple of frankforts and a glass of beer. 
They are what might be called the do- 
less American. They are parasites 
because they have a way of feeding off 
of each other. They sit around writ- 
ing sonnets on affinities and a state 

of government that is coming soon 
to give the lazy as much remuneration 
in life as the industrious scholar. 
Their chapters of their Bible are John 
Mansfield, Ferdinand Earle, Maurice 
Hewlett, and the rest of Mitchell 
Kennerley's stuff of the artistic pose. 
These parasites are the deadly night- 
shade element of a civilization. If 
they were not so lazy and so jelly- 
brained that they are comparatively 
negative by their own inertia, they 
would be poisonous enough to be 
dangerous. As it is they roam harm- 
lessly around, eagerly clutching at any 
one or any thing which "has it in for" 
the general and law abiding pace of the 
most of us. They are a sort of excre- 
tion which every civilization throws off. 
They call themselves "artists" of 
one kind or another because that re- 
lieves them of any sense of obligation 
to really do anything. The only time 
that these slouchy creatures are active, 
the only time that they walk as though 
they knew where they were going, is 
when they are making for a Socialist 
parade or a performance of Suder- 
mann at the German Theater, or an 
Ibsen performance at the Yiddish 
Theater on the East Side. Last year 
there was a series of Ibsen perform- 
ances at the Yiddish Theater on the 
East Side, given by Paul Orlenneff, a 
Russian Jewish actor. They created 
quite a sensation. It was said that 
Orlenneff had spent months in insane 
asylums, studying the minute details 
of the peculiar disease which moti- 
vates "Ghosts." He will probably 
spend months in some such institution 
again for a less voluntary reason. It 
was said that he could roll his eyes 
until one could see nothing but the 
whites; that he could become as pale 
as a ghost and in other ways become 
at will a living horror. It was said 
that his representation of the diseased 
Oswald Alving was in every detail 
pathologically correct. If so, it must 
have been a horrible sight to witness. 
The Yiddish Theater was packed for 
nights and nights. Cries of "Bravo" 
tore the air. Orlenneff came to Bos- 
ton and gave one performance in the 



Grand Opera House, a name which 
sounds well, but which most of us 
could not find without a guide. The 
audience was of the actor's country- 
men and the quasi-litterateurs. The 
scholars, the refined civilized respecta- 
bility did not even know the event 
was happening. The most of us who 
happened to know of it wondered why 
such fiendish realism must be art 
necessarily. Furthermore, these en- 
thusiastic audiences did not at all 
signify any change in the American 
regard for Mr. Ibsen. We have not 
become "Ibsenreif." The problem is 
much the same one as the problem of 
Orlenneff who acted to an OrlennefT- 
reif audience and it did not at all 
mean that he was an artistic actor. 
Anything that is awful enough pulls a 
certain distance of its own sheer force. 
If an out-of-the-way theater were to 
advertise "An actual murder will take 
place here every evening at eight," I 
presume there would soon develop a 
long waiting list for standing room. 
Now Ibsen himself is point-perfect in 
what he says, as far as that be con- 
cerned. Oswald Alving and Nora and 
Hedda Gabler are pathologically cor- 
rect. The problem of "Ghosts" and 
"A Doll's House" and "The Wild 
Duck" are all accurate enough in 
their delineation. But Ibsen isn't 
likely to carry much farther than he 
has already carried, if for no other 
reason than that his dramas do not 
make a human, emotional appeal. 
When Hedda Gabler shoots herself we 
are not affected or sorry. We have no 
more feeling over the matter than we 
would have if we were to read that 
Anna Held had shot herself. We, so 
to speak, can not arouse ourselves to 
any throbbing sympathy over her 
from beginning to end. The only 
feeling which we have when she fires 
the shot is that horror pulsation which 
goes through most of us when the 
thud of any revolver shot falls on our 
ears. We are, or may be, in sym- 
pathy with the situation in "Hedda 
Gabler," with the situation in "Ghosts," 
but we cannot seem to summon up 
any real feeling for or with the people 

themselves. It is the same case when 
Nora walks out to find her own real 
self. We do not seem to be sorry for 
Nora or for any one else in particular. 
The only way in which an Ibsen 
drama seems to work emotionally is 
by N the process of substitution. If 
you know of a very dear friend whose 
case was identical with that of Hedda 
Gabler, as soon as the drama has pro- 
gressed far enough for you to "see 
the point," you begin to substitute 
your dear friend .for Hedda Gabler 
and it instantly becomes your friend's 
drama. The fact remains that Ib- 
sen's characters per se do not seem to 
carry of their own weight; they do 
not seem to "strike home." This is 
partly because Ibsen is only to a 
small extent an artist and to a large 
extent a draughtsman; a draughtsman 
of the corners and angles and curves 
and short cuts of human society. He 
is not a dramatic poet, though at 
times he is poetic. He is not a social 
reformer, he does not make sufficient 
vital appeal to achieve that. He is an 
accurate and sociologic draughtsman 
and dramatist. His dramas act well, 
and read well, and are dramas because 
his stubborn refusal of anything ex- 
cept the facts and incidents of the 
situation makes them move and rattle 
along to their climax with a crisp aim. 

Professor Heller in several instances 
considers Maeterlinck as a sort of 
postlude to Ibsen in the same key. I 
believe he even says that Maeterlinck 
"learned it" from Ibsen. That is 
ridiculous. There is no more real co- 
incidence in the case of Ibsen and 
Maeterlinck than there is in the in- 
stance of considering some extremely 
clever architect as coincident with the 
spirit of Rodin, the sculptor . 

Maeterlinck understands subleties 
and intangible revelations of nature 
more thoroughly than any writer liv- 
ing. He is past master of artistic 
suggestion. If Ibsen understood all 
the revelations of nature as does 
Maeterlinck, we have no way of know- 
ing it from his writings. Ibsen was 
past master of a presentation of human 
society, so that it amounted to his 



putting forth a sort of socio-economic 
philosophy which stops at about the 
same point at which it begins, — as 
does most philosophy. Ibsen was not 
a reformer, if for no other reason than 
because he solves nothing. He merely 
shows us some of the peculiar and 
tragic misfits of characters who are 
playing at life's game with an incon- 
venient assorting and pairing of the 
cards. They make a few moves or 
mis-moves and usually end by simply 
"throwing up" the deal. The scenes 
are all true enough. But that does 
not help anything. Ibsen a moralist? 
No. To walk up to some one or two 
people and deal them a blow that 
stuns them into consciousness and then 
say, "Now this is how false and how 
rotten and how superficial you are," is 
simply bold daring with a soupcon of 
temper for spicing it, and it all may be 
particularly true, but there is no 
moral or reform element in the act. 
Ibsen is not a moralist or a reformer, 
because there is no real uplift in any 
of his dramas. Maeterlinck has no in- 
tention or concern to be a reformer, 
but in even his earlier dramas enough 
of the wonder and the realer beauty of 
the universe has crept in to make him 
stand a fair chance of being, in the 
long run, a force for good. Among 
other things, in order that a writer 
may be a force for good, a moralist, or 
a reformer he must have a better 
sensing of and a better use for good 
than is customarily made use of by 
the ordinary individual. Ibsen has 
none of this effulgence. Ibsen has a 
better sensing of the lack of good in us 
than is customary, — a better sensing 
of the inconsequent and hunchbacked 
morality which civilization affects. 
But that is not to exert influence as a 
moral force or as a reformer. To 
merely collar us and force us to face 
the truth of us is not likely to re- 
form us. It is as though a child had 
spilled the ink and were then to have 
his face pushed down close to or even 
into the puddle while you told him, 
"Now, see what you have done." 

Even Maeterlinck's earlier works 
seem to be done with a few glints of 

sympathetic blue or soothing green 
about them. Ibsen is a constant and 
incessant monochrome in dull brown,, 
with an occasional splash of inky black 
for variation or relief. I venture to 
say that more sympathy will always 
go forth to poor little Selysette in 
Maeterlinck's drama and one feels- 
more of a heart-pull when she jumps 
from her tower than has been or ever 
will be granted Nora or Hedda Gabler. 
And yet poor little Selysette is a far 
more unreal character than either Nora 
or Hedda Gabler. The incompatibility 
of temperament and the everlasting 
and eternal triangle is far nearer an 
explanation and an effective appre- 
ciation in us through Maeterlinck's 
"Aglavaine and Selysette" than it is in 
"Hedda Gabler" or any other Ibsen 
drama. It is partly because Maeter- 
linck never lets go his hold upon the 
unappreciated beauties in us and 
around us, while Ibsen growls con- 
tinually about what we do or have 
done. In other words, Maeterlinck is 
eternally conscious of the infinite 
and its interpretation and Ibsen is 
eternally negligent of it. Some long- 
faced folk have tried occasionally to 
call Ibsen immoral. That is ridiculous 
because he was too sincere and not 
enough of a sentimentalist to be im- 
moral. His dramas are moral enough, 
but I do believe that the result which 
he has or will ever achieve by means of 
them is unmoral. Or, at most, in 
any given audience the count for 
good resultant from "Ghosts" would 
cancel itself through the presence of a 
counterirritant in the shape of a cer- 
tain unmoral result. For, if "Ghosts" 
be true at all, there are the sinned 
against present as well as the sinners. 
From any crime there must be sufferers 
if there be perpetrators. Otherwise 
there is no crime. People whose atti- 
tude toward Ibsen is like Professor 
Heller's, who hold that Ibsen is a 
moralist and a reformer, seem to as- 
sume that every Ibsen audience and 
every Ibsen reader is either immune 
and merely an interested listener or a 
sinner to receive the sacrament, or a 
candidate for sinnerhood to be re- 



formed. It is just as likely that, in 
every audience which has ever wit- 
nessed "Ghosts" that, beside the 
species above catalogued, there have 
been present full as large a per cent 
of good and innocent men and women 
who represent the sinned against and 
who have already had hard enough 
work to take any interest in hanging 
on to an existence which was moth- 
eaten for them, not by them, before 
they were born. Oswald Alving was 
partly sinner and partly sinned against. 
The world has a goodly number of 
those whose lives are already clouded 
by ancestral offenses and tendencies 
and what moral influence, what re- 
form or uplift can or has "Ghosts" 
ever carried to them? This same 
truth could be worked out of every 
Ibsen drama. I say again that the 
dramas themselves as respectable 
reading, as literature, are moral, but 
they have an even chance for being 
resultantly unmoral in their influence. 

I do not believe that there are many 
real scholars in the scholarly sense of 
the word, many literary creators or 
appreciators who are fond of their 
Greek tragedians and their Shake- 
speare and their Milton, who are really 
fond of Ibsen. The folk who are 
fond of much wallowing in Ibsen are 
the do-less litterateurs who have not 
the price of a hair cut. (That sounds 
pathetic; I really mean, who are too 
lazy to earn the price of a hair cut; 
also, they like it long.) No, I do not 
believe that the United States are 
becoming "Ibsenreif." 

Professor Heller's work is one of 
the most comprehensive works upon 
Ibsen and is invaluable in its thorough 
and serious setting forth of Ibsen, his 

plays and his problems. One could 
find no more helpful guide to a study 
or an understanding of this modern 
dramatist. The opening chapters deal 
with "Ibsen the Scandinavian"; 
'; Early Life and Works"; "History 
and Romance"; "Brand Peer Gynt"; 
"The League of Youth"; "The Poet 
as Moralist," etc. Chapter ten is upon 
"Ibsen and the New Drama." There 
are nineteen chapters in all, and each 
play is given a complete discussion 
intrinsically and in relation to its 

The book contains about twenty- 
eight pages of notes and a selected list 
of publications upon Henrik Ibsen, also 
a complete index. Professor Heller is 
professor of the German language and 
literature in Washington University, 
St. Louis. 

In Professor Heller's "Henrik Ibesn 
Plays and Problems," the subject of 
the Norwegian dramatist (and I in- 
sist that he is first, foremost, and almost 
solely dramatist, a writer for the stage) 
receives no new illumination. But in 
spite of a seeming forgetfulness as to 
sentence construction and in spite of 
his conviction as to Ibsen's moral and 
reform quality of achievement this 
new work upon a not-new modern of 
importance is a work of serious and 
worthy import. Professor Heller evi- 
dently has an intimate acquaintance 
of the man and of his entire literary 
output. Whether or not one agrees 
with his conclusions does not matter. 
The work is so full of scholarly in- 
formation that helps to the reader's 
better forming his own opinion that it 
is a certainly valuable addition to the 
list of Ibsen commentaries. 

Reducing the Toll of the Sea 




THE Cingalese fisherman, wish- 
ing to signal a comrade, hangs 
an earthen chatty overboard 
and strikes it sharply beneath 
the water. The blow is inaudible 
above water a few feet away, but his 
comrade in another boat, perhaps a 
mile distant, has but to put his ear to 
the bottom of it to hear every stroke. 
This method of signaling has obtained 
among the Cingalese since remote anti- 
quity, nor has it changed from that 
day to this, yet in it lies the basic 
principle on which modern invention 
has built the modern submarine signal, 
the greatest factor in the safety of 
ships at sea since the coming in use 
of the mariner's compass. Nobody 
knows how many thousand years the 
Cingalese have thus been able to 
signal beneath the water. The mod- 
ern practical application of the idea is 
little more than half a decade old. 

Safety at sea has been man's prob- 
lem since ships were devised. The 
earliest navigators in their tiny shallops 
planned to sail by daylight alone, in 
fair weather, and never out of sight of 
land. Their vessels were so small that 
men might step from them ashore, and 
they went to sea in them with fear and 
foreboding, often to their doom. Yet 
commerce has always called for ships, 
and since the very beginning of civili- 
zation these have been forthcoming. 
With use men grew bolder, ships larger 
and stronger, voyages longer. The 
earliest records of history tell of long 
adventurous voyages that braved tem- 
pest and darkness, unknown reefs and 
sands, along uncharted coasts with the 
sun and stars alone for guides. 

The mariner's compass was inven- 
tion's first great boon to navigation. 

With it the mariner knew where north 
lay as well when clouds and darkness 
obscured the sky as when the sun 
shone. With its aid navigators began 
to explore hitherto unknown seas and 
to roughly chart them. The worst 
reefs, the most dangerous headlands 
along routes of trade began to be known 
and watched out for, to be marked on 
the charts and in the minds of master 
mariners. To recognize these in day- 
light, in fair weather, became part of 
the pilot's trade, but when night shut 
down they lurked unseen and were a 
tremendous menace. Then came the 
next great step in advance, the light- 
house, at first but a fire on a headland, 
becoming with use and improvement a 
lantern in a tower and now grown with 
modern progress to the complicated, 
expensive, and highly efficient modern 
lighthouse, capable under favorable 
conditions of warning mariners for a 
distance of twenty miles or more. 

The best use of the lighthouse is a 
rather modern thing, yet the earliest 
writings of man make reference to some 
form of it, showing that the idea of 
giving warning and guidance to ships 
at sea by means of a light on shore 
antedates history. Most of the ideas 
in the world are very old. It is only 
the active application of them that is 
modern. The ancient Greeks ascribe 
the invention of the lighthouse to 
Herakles, and made him the patron 
saint of mariners. To him on setting 
forth they vowed tithes which on suc- 
cessful return were spent in entertain- 
ment. The Sybians and Cushites of 
lower Egypt had lighthouses which 
were temples also, lighting the lower 
reaches of the Nile, and from their 
word for high, "tor," and fire, "is," 





the Latins derived their "turrie," 
meaning a tower. The Cyclops of 
the Roman legend, with his one great 
flaring eye, was a lighthouse, and Apollo 
blinding him with arrows was merely 
the sun rising and dulling his light 
with a greater. 

Thus ancient is the lighthouse. 
Long before the Christian era the 
greatest lighthouse tower the world 
has ever seen — if the story of its 
height be true — was erected at Alex- 
andria in the reign of Ptolemy II, 283- 
247 B.C. This was one of the won- 
ders of the world, and was said to 
be six hundred feet high. It cost 

But the best light is dim or power- 
less in fog or storm, and so we have 
the fog-horn and fog-bell supplement- 
ing it. Like the light, under the right 
conditions the fog-horn and the fog- 
bell are very effective, but like the best 
light these, too, may be exceedingly 
unreliable. Often the fog-horn is un- 
heard when most needed, though the 
distance may be slight and the same 
sound may be heard by another ship 
at double the distance. Often the 
strongest light is strangely obscured. 
The cause seems to be the instability 
of the medium through which both 
act, air. Through air of uniform 
density sound and light waves pro- 
ceed uniformly in all directions. But 
air is so lightly moved about, is so 
easily expanded and contracted, has 
such varying strata produced by so 
many varying agencies, that its con- 
ductivity changes almost momentarily. 
Sound waves in particular, passing 
through a given layer of air, seem to be 
reflected by another, denser layer, to 
bend often and pass around a certain 
space, indeed to cut all sorts of queer 
capers. In mirage we have varying 
layers and moving columns of air 
playing such tricks with light waves 
that the sight is deceived. Objects 
are strangely distorted, show to the 
eye inverted, or are completely blotted 
from sight. 

Thus coast lights at night, though 
the air may seem clear and the stars 
above be visible, often are withdrawn 

from sight through atmospheric tricks 
when they ought to be plainly seen. 
So the sound of fog-horns or fog-bells 
may be faint or unheard though the 
source is very near, or may come to the 
ear from a false direction. And on 
'some dangerous coasts fog and storm 
are so prevalent that the lighthouse is 
useful only a small fraction of the time 
that the lights burn. 

Yet safety at sea has increased 
greatly during the last century, in 
part through the increased use of 
lights and fog signals, but far more 
because of the steamship and its in- 
crease in size and efficiency. With 
the modern type of these fitted with 
engines so powerful that they can 
drive the ship at high speed into any 
gale that blows, with sides so high 
and bulk so vast that the greatest 
seas do not imperil progress or en- 
danger the lives of those aboard, 
traveling over routes so well charted 
and known to the navigators that they 
are veritable highways of the sea, the 
world's traffic would seem to be safe 
from all the vicissitudes which beset 
the early navigators. And so in a 
large measure it is. Yet the vast 
bulk and power of the big liners, bulk 
which makes their momentum irre- 
sistible, power which drives them at 
tremendous speed, have brought about 
new dangers. Hendrick Hudson's 
Half Moon might have met an iceberg 
while going at full speed in the north- 
ern seas, and would have bounced 
back from it unharmed. The Half 
Moon might graze a reef, and unless 
driven on it by a gale would stand a 
fair chance to slide off it with the rising 
tide undamaged. The Half Moon 
could not meet and collide with another 
vessel under any circumstances, for 
she was the only one sailing the seas 
which she explored. 

But for the great ships which sail 
the Half Moon's track to-day the 
dangers of reef, iceberg, and collision 
are vastly increased. The Lusitania, 
the Kaiser Wilhelm, the Cedric, and the 
hundreds of other big ocean steam- 
ships carry doom in their own great 
throbbing hearts every time they set 



forth upon the sea. That it does not 
overwhelm them is due to the skill, the 
ceaseless vigilance, the coolness of the 
men that man them, and the luck that 
goes with such attributes. Once in a 
while the luck fails and in spite of the 
other factors the fate which waits the 
modern liner steps forth to meet her. 
Thus the Titanic went to the bottom, 
snuffing out nearly two thousand lives 
and taking with her millions in prop- 
erty. Thus the Republic went, and 
thus before them have gone other 
great steamships, some to known dis- 
aster, others sailing forth to the port of 
missing ships, to a fate unknown in the 
vast mystery of the sea. 

This promise of doom lies in their 
great bulk and momentum, their 
capability of great speed, and the de- 
mand of the schedule which obliges 
such ships to keep up their speed in 
spite of fog or storm, whether icebergs, 
reefs, or collisions endanger them. 
With the increase in number of 
great ocean liners, of coastwise steam- 
ships, and other vessels, to the extent 
of crowding narrow waterways in the 
neighborhood of great ports, these 
dangers are appalling. Modern inven- 
tion in the way of bulk, speed, and 
schedule time has outstripped modern 
invention in the way of safety equip- 
ment for these great ocean steamships. 
The swift boats "make their own 
weather" at sea, as the saying goes, and 
they make their own danger too. 

To avoid this danger is the one 
great problem of the navigator. Into 
the solution of it has come within the 
last decade the wireless telegraph. 
With it, for the first time in history, 
ships at sea have been able to keep in 
more or less constant communication 
with the shore and with each other. 
As an aid to business its use has been 
tremendous. As a factor for safety 
after disater has come about or a pallia- 
tive of the final catastrophe it has 
proved its great worth in many signal 
instances. Without it the Titanic 
would perhaps simply have vanished 
in the sea, never to be heard of more, as 
other great liners have done before ships 
were equipped with it. As a prevent- 

ative of disaster it has its uses as 
well. With it one ship can warn 
another of icebergs or derelicts, giving 
their approximate location so that the 
oncoming vessel may watch out for 
these at the danger point or by a 
change of course avoid the danger. 

It can send out a call for help over a 
hundred miles of sea, and hear and 
answer the call in the same way. But 
in such a case the wireless has very 
decided limitations. By it the en- 
dangered vessel can send out its exact 
latitude and longitude, provided it has 
it, and the rescuer may come as near 
that spot as the instruments and the 
state of the weather will permit. But 
there this marvelous assistant ceases 
to assist. To the receiver the aero- 
gram is a voice out of the void, from a 
direction unknown. In the case of the 
wreck of the Republic, which occurred 
in a thick fog, the Baltic called by wire- 
less, zigzagged for twelve hours in that 
fog, all within an area of ten square 
miles, while the shipwrecked hundreds 
and the listening world waited in an 
agony of suspense. 

The Baltics wireless told of the 
progress of the search, and the two 
ships were in constant communication 
with one another, yet the wireless 
alone could do no more. It could 
not tell the captain of the Baltic when 
he was nearing the Republic nor when 
he was going away, and the search and 
its final success hung absolutely on 
another factor, a still later invention 
for the safety of ships at sea, the sub- 
marine bell on Nantucket Shoals Light- 
ship. The captain of the Republic 
has told the captain of the Baltic 
by wireless that the Republic was within 
sound of the submarine bell on the 
lightship. Hence, whenever the Bal- 
tic moved out of hearing of that bell 
the captain knew he was going wrong 
and he came back within the circle. 
Thus the little bell, sounding its shrill 
call twenty feet beneath the surface, 
was the real thread which led this 
modern Theseus through the Daedalian 
labyrinth of the fog to the rescue. 
Had the Carpathia sought the Ti- 
tanic's boats in a fog instead of a per- 



fectly clear morning, the chances are a 
hundred to one that she would never 
have found them, and that in spite of 
the wireless the loss of the great steam- 
ship's precious human freight would 
have been as complete as that of the 
millions in merchandise which went 
down in her. 

The use of the submarine bell already 
made by shipping proves that in value 
it surpasses any other device for the 
safety of ships at sea and is rightly 
hailed by conservative mariners as 
most valuable of any device adopted 
since the mariners' compass. Its 
range is not so great as that of lights 
in clear weather, not nearly so great 
as that of wireless, but on the other 
hand it works as well at night, in fog 
and storm, as in the daylight under 
clear skies. Its direction may be ab- 
solutely obtained under all conditions, 
and its reliability within its range is 

In 1906 the British Admiralty made 
exhaustive tests of submarine signals, 
and the following is an extract from 
their report: 

"We have come to the following conclusions 
as to the utility of submarine sound signals: 

"If the light-vessels round the coast were 
fitted with submarine bells, it would be possible 
for ships, fitted with receiving apparatus, to 
navigate in the fog almost with as great cer- 
tainty as in clear weather. 

"The saving of time and money brought 
about by enabling ships to reach port, instead of 
being delayed by fog and losing tides, etc., would 
be very considerable, and shipwreck and loss of 
life would be rendered less frequent." 

Trinity House adopted the system 
forthwith and the conclusions of the 
Admiralty have been strikingly con- 
firmed by those using the apparatus. 

Said Captain Watt, late of the 

"Nearly all my sea life I have been looking 
forward to getting the assistance of a reliable 
sound signal. Now I feel that we have got it, 
and all that is required, in my opinion, is its 
universal application." 

Captain Turner of the Mauritania: 
"Yes, I am tired of the old fog-horn. We 
can'thear it half the time, and it is always un- 
certain. The bell is the thing, the submarine 

A former captain of the White Star 
liner Celtic: 

"If it should come to a question of doing 
away with either the lights or the submarine 
bells, I should prefer to do away with the lights 
and have the submarine bells rung continuously." 

A coastwise captain, when asked to 
curtail expenses by taking out the sub- 
marine receiving apparatus, said: 

"I would rather take out the wireless. That 
only enables me to tell other people where I am. 
The submarine signal enables me to find out 
where I am myself." 

In a word, stripped of technicalities, 
the submarine signal consists of a 
bell which is rung under water, and an 
apparatus aboard ship for hearing this 
and locating the direction whence it 
comes. Its use on lightships, ex- 
posed reefs and buoys for the guidance 
of ships in darkness and thick weather 
should become universal as a matter of 
safety to the traveling public, and the 
equipment of vessels with its tele- 
phonic receivers, already begun with 
the great liners, should extend through 
coastwise steamers to all vessels. 
Sixty great lines have already adopted 
the invention, including almost a 
thousand ships. Nearly a hundred 
and fifty stations have been installed 
at dangerous points on the coasts of 
all the world, even China, Uruguay, 
and Russia being represented. 

The striking of the bells is auto- 
matic. A pneumatic mechanism op- 
erates those at the lightships. An 
electrical device operating through a 
cable from shore rings those which 
mark dangerous reefs, and an auto- 
matic mechanism operated by the 
waves is suspended from buoys, where 
there are no lightships and the distance 
from shore is too great for the use of 
an electric cable. 

For receiving the signal on each side 
of the ship near the bow and well 
below the water line is a small cast- 
iron tank filled with water, in which 
hang two microphones. The distance 
of the tanks from the stem is twenty 
feet or more, according to the shape 
and size of the ship. The bell sound 
coming through the water passes 
through the skin of the ship, enters 
the water in the tank, and is picked 
up by the microphones which in turn 
transmit it to the indicator box in the 



pilot-house or chart-room, with which 
each microphone is electrically con- 
nected. Switches in the indicator box 
enable the observer to listen alter- 
nately to the sound picked up by the 
port and starboard microphones, and 
to determine by the loudness of the 
tone on which side the bell is ringing. 
In order to get the exact direction 
from which the sound is coming the 
ship is swung toward the side on which 
the sound is louder until it is equally 
loud on both sides. The ship is then 
pointing directly at the bell. 

The value of submarine signaling 
depends upon the remarkable reliabil- 
ity of water as a medium for transmit- 
ting sound. Its density never varies, 
and while changing currents of air may 
block off the sound of a fog-horn or 
air-bell from a ship within a short dis- 
tance of it, as has been demonstrated in 
practice and by the experiment of 
Professor Tyndall, the submarine bell 
sends out its warning in fog and dark- 
ness through a medium always of uni- 
form density and steady transmitting 
power. Water is a trustworthy mes- 
senger and it never fails to deliver the 

The transatlantic liners bound for 
New York make Nantucket Light- 
ship, for this is the turning point from 
which they lay their course for Fire 
Island and Ambrose Channel. If they 
pick up Nantucket they can lay their 
course with absolute certainty and be 
sure of making Fire Island. If, 
owing to fog, they do not make Nan- 
tucket, the run to New York is full of 
anxiety and danger. Ships equipped 
with receiving apparatus make Nan- 
tucket with absolute certainty, no 
matter what the weather, and proceed 
on their course with the confidence of 
definite knowledge. 

At Cherbourg tenders equipped with 
the submarine bell steam outside the 
harbor and act as guides to the liners 
coming in, thus saving much valuable 
time and avoiding the danger of a 
close and uncertain approach to the 
coast in fog. 

The service which the submarine 
signal renders is not confined to saving 

life and property. Its value for saving 
time also was well illustrated some 
years ago by an incident at Bremer- 
haven, when the Kaiser Wilhelm II 
reached the mouth of the Weser, 
together with several other vessels not 
equipped with submarine signals. By 
means of her receiving apparatus she 
was able to pick up the Weser Light- 
ship, enter the harbor, where she found 
the fog lifted, and discharge her pas- 
sengers and cargo. It was twenty-four 
hours before the weather cleared out- 
side and the other vessels could make 

Not only are submarine signals the 
only reliable coast warning, but they 
are the only means of communication 
for submarine boats when under water. 
Each submarine carries a bell and a 
receiving apparatus, and when it is 
realized that within a few years sev- 
eral submarines have been lost and 
more than a hundred lives needlessly 
sacrificed for lack of the apparatus, its 
great value may be appreciated. Two 
instances afford sufficient illustration. 

At Newport in a test when the 
United States submarine Octopus was 
running a mile submerged, a tug 
crossed the course paying out tow- 
line, which lay directly in the path of 
the submarine boat. It was only a 
matter of moments when she would 
have been raked by the hawser and in 
all probability lost with all on board, 
when her tender signaled her to come 
to the surface. She instantly obeyed, 
and escaped almost certain destruction. 

The other, an instance of an acci- 
dent which might have been avoided, 
was that of the French submarine 
Pluviose. While maneuvering out- 
side Calais harbor she rose to the sur- 
face directly in front of a cross-channel 
steamer, and was sunk with all her 
crew, twenty-seven in number, none 
of whom escaped. Had she been 
equipped with submarine signaling 
apparatus she would have heard the 
approaching steamer in time to avoid 
the collision. 

The part the submarine signal may 
play in the future in developing sub- 
marine boats as an offensive and de- 



fensive weapon in warfare cannot be 
fully realized until war comes, but 
that naval officers keenly appreciate 
its importance may be shown by the 
following from the New York Sun of 
July 3, 1912: 

"Considerable success is being attained by the 
officers and crews of the naval submarine flotilla 
here in the use of the submarine bell signals. 

"On Monday four of the submarines, C— 2, 
C—3, C-4, and C-5, using the submarine bell 
as the only means of communication, went out 
in search of an 'enemies' ship,' which was in 
substance the tender Castine. The Castine 
left the bay early in the morning and cruised off 
Point Judith. 

"The submarines, some time later, submerged 
in the harbor, passed out to sea and started on 
their under-water search for the 'enemy.' After 
some maneuvering in depths varying from 
twenty to sixty feet the Castine was found and 
sunk, theoretically, by four torpedoes with 
dummy war-pads that were fired at her." 

No satisfactory apparatus for send- 
ing out submarine signals from moving 
ship other than submarine boats has 
yet been perfected; but such apparatus 
is now in the experimental stage and 
there is every reason to believe that 
in the near future it will be possible for 
two surface ships to signal each other 
in the fog at several miles distance and 
to determine their relative positions. 
Then what is perhaps the most serious 
danger at sea to-day, the risk of col- 
lision, will be overcome. 

Although the greatest service of the 
submarine signals is in the prevention 
of accidents, they are also of primary 
importance after an accident. The 
vital thing is to summon help at the 
earliest possible moment. If there is 
fog — and most accidents occur in a 
fog — ■ there is nothing besides sub- 
marine signals which will give the ex- 
act location of the disabled ship. A 
hand-bell has been devised which can 
be lowered overboard after an accident 
and run to enable the rescuing ship 
to come directly to the wreck. A 
striking illustration of the need of such 
a bell is furnished by the search of 
the Baltic for the wrecked Republic. 

The Baltic, coming from Europe, has 
picked up the submarine bell on Nan- 
tucket Shoals Lightship in a dense fog, 
laid her course from that point to New 
York, and proceeded eighty miles 

when she got the wireless messages 
that the Republic was in distress, and 
also the following: 

"Have picked up Nantucket by submarine 
bell north-northeast sound in holding thirty- 
five fathoms." — Sealby. 

Acting on this information, the Baltic 
got within range of the submarine bell 
on Nantucket Shoals, and then began 
her search for the Republic. 

As Captain Ransom said (Outlook, 
February 6, 1909): 

"When I could hear the submarine bell my- 
self I knew I was outside of the Republic's 


"After twelve hours' search zigzagging and 
circling in the fog, changing our course as each 
new bit of information came by wireless, we at 
last found the Republic. We came within a 
hundred feet of the ship before we could see 
anything, and then we saw only the faint glare 
of a green light. They were burning, like the 
illumination you burn on Fourth of July." 

And again: 

"During our twelve hours' search I estimate 
we traveled two hundred miles in our zigzag 
course before we found her and all within a sea 
area of ten square miles." 

Had there been a rough sea the 
Republic would have foundered sooner 
and the lifeboats might have been use- 
less. On the other hand, had the 
Republic carried a submarine hand- 
bell she would have been found twelve 
hours earlier. 

Just as each ship should carry the 
emergency hand-bell so should each 
lifeboat. Then in darkness or thick 
weather all lifeboats could be picked 
up, and without loss of time. 

Such is the theory and use of the sub- 
marine bell, a use so undeniably great 
that the installations thus far made are 
but the small beginnings of what must 
soon become universally adopted. 
Lighthouses and air-borne fog-signals 
have cost the world uncounted mil- 
lions to devise, install, and maintain. 
Yet every dense fog, every roaring 
winter storm, with its muffling snow 
and black vapor, wipes these off the 
coast line and puts navigation, so far as 
their aid is concerned, back in the time 
of the Phoenicians. Yet then from 
every reef and lightship where sub- 



marine bells have been installed goes 
forth a warning clangor, audible for 
many miles, no matter what the 
weather, its distance easily estimated, 
its direction absolutely determined. 
So mighty is the modern ship that the 
buffeting of the storm itself can hardly 
delay its passage, provided the naviga- 
tor can be sure of his whereabouts. 
The submarine signal gives him this 
assurance and its saving of life, prop- 

erty and time makes it, like the com- 
pass, the chart, and the wireless, a 
mighty factor of the comfort and 
profit of those who go down to the sea 
in ships. When inter-ship signaling 
by this means shall have been per- 
fected — and there is promise that the 
day is near — the worst danger which 
the sea holds for big ships, that of col- 
lision during thick weather, will be 
definitely conquered. 

The Pageant as a Popular Form 
Holiday Celebration 



TO one who stands upon the 
acropolis at Athens looking 
down upon the magnificent 
ruins of the theater of Diony- 
sius and picturing the scene when Peri- 

cles and the Flower of the Golden Age 
gathered under the open sky in the 
elaborately carved auditorium to wit- 
ness the Antigone of Sophocles pre- 
sented against a background of olive- 



lined roadways, the Pentelic hills and 
the distant ^Egean Sea, to such an 
observer harking back to our typical 
American playhouse, poorly venti- 
lated, gaudily furnished with plush 
curtains, rococo embellishments, flap- 
seated chairs, electric bulbs, and nickel- 
in-the-slot allurements, the supremacy 
of Grecian civilization in the matter of 
dramatic entertainments comes for- 
cibly home and our modern theater 
seems cheaply artificial. Of course 
the climate is the secret of the unhappy 
comparison. Our winter theater- 
going season precludes an open-air 
auditorium; but during the summer 
months an awakening appreciation of 
the Greek idea is apparent and some 
approach to the high standard of that 
day is found in the popular out-of-door 
pageants of the past few years. Suffi- 
cient has already been accomplished 
to warrant a prophecy that the torch- 
bearers of dramatic progress will find 
this a most fruitful field to exploit. 

The revival of classic tragedies by 
college students, the masques, Buffalo 
Bill's Wild West show, the spectacular 
Joan of Arc in the Harvard stadium 
are instances of the return of the open- 
air play. 

Among several pageants success- 
fully given in New England during 
the past summer four, distinctly differ- 
ent in quality, may be briefly consid- 
ered, — the Pageant of Education at 
Lawrence, Mass.; the Pageant of 
Rural Progress at Thetford, Vt.; the 
Pageant of Music at Peterboro, N. H.; 
the Pageant of Patriotism at Taunton, 

The Pageant of Education, con- 
ducted by the schoolteachers of 
Lawrence, was something like the old 
English processionals. The players, 
impersonating prominent figures in the 
world's educational evolution, emerged 
from a grove and performed upon a 
wooden dancing platform erected in an 
open field by the Merrimac River. 
The Pageant of Rural Progress was 
thoroughly a community affair dealing 
with the cry "back to the land." 
The past, present, and future of agri- 
culture was taken up in the light of 

the revolutions wrought by machinery. 
This pageant is suitable for any farm-, 
ing district; at Thetford a hundred 
city-bred girls from two summer camps 
added a note of grace and vivacity. 
The pageants at Peterboro center 
around the name of MacDowell, the 
famous composer, who had his home 
there. The MacDowell Choral Society 
makes this an annual adoration of the 
master to whose shrine music-loving 
pilgrims come as to the home of 
Wagner at Beyreuth. 

A pageant more adaptable to any 
American municipality is the Pageant 
of Patriotism, given as an exemplary 
way of celebrating a safe and sane 
Fourth of July. 

This production vibrates to the iron 
chord of Freedom and offers ample 
outlet for young America to let the 
eagle scream without inviting the 
calamities attendant upon the old- 
fashioned cannon-cracker and sky- 
rocket Independence Day. Although 
Taunton was peculiarly fortunate in 
possessing a remarkable natural am- 
phitheater, the pageant can be given in 
any city of the United States where a 
level area two hundred feet square may 
be found beside an expanse of water. 
Take the most prominent stepping- 
stones of American history, such as the 
landing of Columbus, arrival of the 
Pilgrim Fathers, signing the Declara- 
tion, etc., introduce one or two local 
scenes bearing upon national affairs, 
call out a detail from the Grand Army, 
add the folk dances of the various 
nationalities which colonize in every 
American city, and a magnificent en- 
tertainment is at once outlined. In- 
dians must be counted in, — -boys 
always itch to impersonate the young 
barbarians at play. A court scene in 
one of the countries from which 
America was colonized, that of Fer- 
dinand and Isabella, Henry IV of 
France, or Queen Elizabeth, introduces 
a sumptuous Old-World picture. As a 
finale let Uncle Sam review the pageant 
and the Goddess of Liberty lead in 
singing "America." 

The eminent English authority, 
Louis N. Parker, defines a pageant as 



a festival to Almighty God in com- 
memoration of past glory and present 
prosperity. He insists upon a religious 
service the Sunday previous to the 
opening performance to prepare a re- 
ceptive attidude of mind. A pageant 
is a prayer of aspiration. 

It is the cleanest form of drama, 
tolerating none of the taint which 
often hovers over plays produced in 
theaters, even on the border of Puritan 
Boston Common. Vulgarity that 
lurks behind footlights cannot endure 
under the searching light of open day. 
Sun and air kill moral germs as they 
do disease germs that nourish in 

No pageant worthy of the name 
can be given indoors or under an 
artificial light. While mystery and an 
atmosphere of romance are enhanced 
by strong searchlights in the surround- 
ing cowl of darkness (which profes- 
sional actors are quick to make use of) 
that produces only a magic dream — a 
sort of Arabian nights' entertainment. 
But a pageant is something higher, 
finer, more real, a sunlit vision of the 
open day. 

The pageant is peculiarly appro- 
priate to democracy. Three things the 
ideal government must do to keep the 
lid on human nature and preserve the 
peace: provide education, employ- 
ment, and entertainment. The pag- 
eant is a sort of municipal theater, 
giving equal opportunity to all the 
community, not a troupe of strolling 
actors nor a dramatic organization, 
but an amalgamation of amateurs who 
serve without compensation. 

Artists are in their element, so are 
musicians, orators, antiquarians, and 
terpsichoreans. All ranks, creeds, 
ages, and professions co-operate. 
Dreamers in the Fine Arts mix with 
practical men of affairs. The furore for 
dancing brings forward girls a-plenty. 
The total number of participants in the 
Hudson-Fulton pageant was one hun- 
dred thousand. 

The historical pageant attempts to 
vivify conspicuous epochal events of 
local history. The performers as- 
suming the characters of their ances- 

tors have a better grip on the great 
moving epic of life of which they are a 
single link. The actors themselves 
reap the most good out of the produc- 
tion. By stepping back into the past a 
person can more intelligently under- 
stand the tread of the times and better 
address himself to the morrow. Such a 
pageant will teach more history in two 
hours than one would learn from books 
in years. It is wholesale education. 
Especially do foreign-born citizens, 
who have had no schooling in America, 
become Americanized in this way. 

To get up a good pageant is what a 
fine old lady called a "Herculaneum 
task." The leading spirit must be a 
person of untiring energy. It re- 
quires great executive ability and tact 
to get along well with explosive tem- 
peraments, jealousies, lethargies, 
strong-minded women and conflict- 
ing advice from several hundred volun- 
teer counselors. The master can di- 
rect the rehearsals and performance 
and interpret the text of the book, but 
a thousand details must be divided 
among committees of finance, cos- 
tumes, music, dancing, tickets, in- 
formation, hospitality, advertising, 
preparing auditorium, etc. Costumes 
should be of local manufacture; not 
only are they much fresher and cleaner, 
but the home-made pageant is best 
and many wish to keep their costumes. 
Likewise the orchestra should be local. 
Some person or organization of sub- 
scribers must back the enterprise. 
From two to five thousand dollars will 
be required to carry it through tri- 

Pageants are usually given for the 
benefit of Daughters of the Revolu- 
tion, teachers' guilds, or other public 
objects, but they are a deserving cause 
in themselves, and although they do 
not pay expenses, are worth many 
thousand dollars to any municipality. 

Pageants are especially fitted for 
presentation in small towns. Now 
that America has begun to show her 
age in observing her bi-centennial, 
quarter-millennial, even ter-centennial 
anniversaries, this seems to be a de 
luxe form of jubilation. What has 



been done by others any town may do 
with a little patience and enthusiasm, 
if not afraid of hard work. Study your 
resources and symbolize them. Moun- 
tains, iron industry, fisheries, prevent- 
ive medicine, even the New England 
conscience, may be symbolized or 
" spiritualized" (Hawthorne said 
"steam spiritualized transportation"). 

The frame in which the pageant pic- 
ture is placed is of first importance. 
Of the four pageants mentioned above, 
that at Thetford was given on a grassy 
intervale meadow sandwiched between 
the railroad tracks and the Connecticut 
River. At Peterboro the arena was 
prepared by cutting off the pine woods 
on the hill slope, opening a magnificent 
view of distant Monadnock. At Law- 
rence the pageant took place on the 
bank of the Merrimac, although the 
river, as at Thetford, was not made 
use of. At Taunton it was given in a 
remarkably level area, surrounded by a 
wooded hill slope on the edge of a lake. 
The poetry and magic of a lake are in- 
dispensable to supply the final charm 
to pageantry. There are so many 
events which require boats. 

Many anxieties of mind attend the 
pageant master. The greatest alarm 
is the fifty-seven varieties of New Eng- 
land weather. 

The writer has seen several pageants 
routed by sudden showers. While 
sunshine is to be prayed for, too much 
of a good thing is good for nothing. 
At a pageant during the first week in 
July the weather was so excessively 

hot that many who had purchased 
tickets were unable to attend. One 
gentleman on the afternnoon of the per- 
formance to which he had tickets re- 
paired to his bathroom, filled the tub 
to the brim, lighted a cigar, and read 
the libretto in something of Roman 

The historical pageant is for the 
masses, — an expression of community 
consciousness in sensuous form. Music, 
dancing, color, motion, lie close to the 
heart of humanity. The drama will 
endure as long as girls put on their 
mothers' dresses to traipse through the 
streets, and boys tuck feathers in their 
hair to whoop through the forest. 
That is the beginning of the pageant 
spirit. Dealing as it does with broad, 
sweeping events of national significance 
as well as small single local plots, a 
pageant spans the classic and romantic 
spirit, both holds itself in with calm 
reserve and lets itself loose in pictur- 
esque imaginativeness. 

A well-conducted pageant is a ra- 
tional and safe entertainment that 
every one may enjoy. It provides 
outlet for dramatic talent, promotes 
civic pride, arouses wholesome com- 
petition, gives favorable advertise- 
ment abroad, brings home old resi- 
dents, knits together the divers strands 
of the varied population, inspires 
patriotism, gives a wider outlook on 
the world and suggests new sources of 
power to hold one's own in the battle 
for progress. 

The Guardian 

(Continued from page 320) 
attention to her wishes by hurling the 
most convenient object she had at 
hand. Therefore he found it wise to 
anticipate her needs as far as possible. 

Mrs. Hanrihan grasped the handle 
of a frying-pan, deftly tossed the con- 
tents into the air with a motion that 

caused the eggs to do a somersault 
and return bottom side up, then once 
again she uptilted the can to her lips. 
'Gene watched the process with an 
experienced eye. As the can ap- 
proached the perpendicular, he hastily 
wiped his hands on his apron and 
edged nearer. She lowered the can 



with a bleary glare towards the sink 
and mechanically reached for a large 
spoon. Her hand paused in mid-air 
as she saw 'Gene waiting by her side. 

''Phot t' hell do you want?" she 


She faced him pugnaciously. On 
the whole she didn't care to have him 
anticipate her wants. She not only 
preferred to do things in her own way, 
but she had a vague notion that in tak- 
ing for granted her unquenchable thirst 
'Gene was reflecting upon her reputa- 
tion for sobriety which she never al- 
lowed any one to question. She had 
sustained this reputation by never 
being altogether sober in fifteen years, 
and so affording no basis for compari- 
son. Her erratic actions and hot 
temper thus passed as mere eccen- 
tricities of disposition. 

"Phot t' hell do you want?" she 
repeated, shifting the emphasis from 
the personal pronoun to the noun. 

"Nothin'," he answered restlessly 
as he waited for the can. Diplomacy 
justified the sacrifice of strict truth. 

She eyed him from head to foot, but 
his face remained as impassive as his 

"Ye're after thinkin' I want more 
suds? Huh?" 

"Didn't know but what ye might 
like a drop just to moisten your throat," 
he admitted. 

"Phot if I do?" she demanded, still 
looking for some excuse to use the 
iron spoon. 

"I'd get it for ye," he allowed. 

"Ye would, would yer? Thin why 
the hell don't yer? Phot yer standin' 
there fer? Phot—" 

Having by this time worked herself 
up to the proper pitch, she made a 
pass at him. He dodged, seized the- 
can, and went out. He crossed the 
street to the neighboring saloon, where 
Mrs. Hanrihan kept a standing ac- 
count, and saw the can filled without a 
necessary syllable of explanation on his 
part. The beer looked so cool and 
refreshing that after a moment's hesi- 
tation he ordered a glass for himself. 
He drank this with such satisfactory 

results that he ordered a second. It 
not only washed away the taste of 
ham and eggs, but it stimulated in him 
a latent rebellion. 

It was Bella who had secured for 
him this job of dishwasher in the same 
restaurant where she served as waitress. 
After three days of idleness, during 
which time she had furnished him with 
food and lodging, he had accepted this 
employment more in a spirit of grati- 
tude to her than anything else. But 
now he was heartily tired of it. The 
humid, noisome atmosphere made him 
half sick; the hours from six in the 
morning until after eleven at night left 
him each day dead for lack of sleep, 
and finally Mrs. Hanrihan kept him in 
a constant state of irritation. Had it 
not been for Bella's advice to hold the 
job until she found something better 
for him, he would have chucked it long 
ago. He didn't propose to stand being 
bullied by any one. 

The ale, having in a few minutes 
roused him from a state of dejection 
to this stanch attitude, he was con- 
vinced that a third glass might do even 
more. He swallowed it, and his 
highest hopes were realized. On the 
spot he determined that he had en- 
dured enough from Mrs. Hanrihan. 
Bella had been very good to him, but 
there was a limit as to what he could 
stand even for her sake. She had been 
very good to him indeed. He never 
had realized it more fully than he did 
this minute. He liked Bella. He went 
to the Ferry with her every night. 
At first he had thought her rather 
homely, but of late she seemed to be 
growing handsome. 

The barkeeper at this point offered a 
bit of advice. 

" Better git along with them suds." 

"Let her wait," said 'Gene. 

"Take it from me, bo'," answered 
the barkeeper; "don't let her wait." 

"Why not?" demanded 'Gene. 

" 'Cause she'll raise a fine crop of 
bumps on that sandy nut o' yours if 
yuh do," he replied. 

He swabbed off the dark mahogany 
with an expression of conviction mixed 
with utter indifference. 



'Gene picked up the can and went 
out. His legs were springy now. At 
the foot of the stairs leading to the 
kitchen he lifted the can and took a 
long draught. When he pushed into 
the kitchen his face was beaming. 
Mrs. Hanrihan made one dive for him 
with a volley of oaths that ordinarily 
would have cowed him. This time, 
however, she had reckoned without 
taking into consideration the three 
glasses of ale. 'Gene shook himself 
free as easily as a cub bear and faced her. 

"Keerful, ol' lady!" he warned. 

Mrs. Hanrihan stared a second in 
dumb amazement. Her mouth was 
open and she had every appearance 
of delivering an extra-fine line of 
oaths, and yet not a single word passed 
her lips. The effect was impressive. 

"Hold your hosses, ol' lady!" 'Gene 
advised further. 

Mrs. Hanrihan rolled her sleeves up 
over her heavy arms. 'Gene watched 
the preparations, still beaming. A pan 
of frying eggs left on the stove began to 
smoke. Still dumb, she leveled a stiff 
blow at him and bore down. He seized 
her by one fat shoulder and in spite 
of her weight held her immovable. 
Glaring, she waved her arms. His 
fingers sank into rolls of fat with a 
tighter grip which made her wince. 

"Dom ye," she coughed, "dom ye!" 

Then, as she found herself in a vise, 
she emitted a long piercing scream 
ending in the blood-curdling cry of 
"Murther! Murther!" 

He dropped his hand. The room 
was filled with smoke that blinded 
them both. 'Gene knew his hour had 
come, and in a final fit of drunken 
recklessness seized the can of beer and 
deliberately poured it over Mrs. Han- 
rihan's head. Spluttering and gasp- 
ing, she repeated her cry. 'Gene 
seized his hat and coat and ducked 
out of the room, up the back stairs, 
and outdoors. He crossed to the 
saloon and threw his last nickel down 
on the bar. As he gave his order, the 
barkeeper grinned. 

"Guess yuh on now. Huh?" 

"Guess she is, too," answered 'Gene 

" Yuh don't mean yuh done her up ? " 

"Oughter go over an' see her," said 

The barkeeper shook his head. 

"Not fer me. I'm near 'nuff right 
here," he answered. "But dere's a 
diarnond belt comin' to youse if she 
took der count. She useter trim 
Hanrihan reg'lar, an' he done some 
good men hisself in his day." 

"Poured th' suds down her neck," 
chuckled 'Gene. 

"Th' hell yuh did," exclaimed the 

He seemed to have an inspiration. 

"Say — did yuh ever put on der 

"What ye mean?" 

"Ever do any sluggin'? Yuh've 
gut der build all right — all right." 

"No," answered 'Gene, "I never 
fought none, but I ain't no slouch 

"Bet yuh could handle yuh dukes, 
too. I'd like to see yuh staked up 
ag'in some un 'bout yuh size. Maybe 
I can fix it up fer yuh. Dere's a ten 
spot in a lively go — win or lose." 

Even in his present self-confident 
frame of mind, 'Gene did not enthuse 
rapidly over this kindly offer. 

"I'll see 'bout it bime bye," he 

"I'll have a talk with Flynn," the 
barkeeper nodded. "Drop in next 
week and we'll see wot we can frame 

'Gene finished his ale and went out. 
Bella would not be through for another 
hour yet, and he decided to wait for 
her. He strutted up and down the 
street with a great deal of satisfaction 
to himself. He felt freer and more 
independent than he had at any time 
since he left home. He consumed a 
very pleasant hour in this way. He 
anticipated with a good deal of pleas- 
ure recounting to Bella how he had 
fixed old Hanrihan. He knew that 
even the proprietor stood in awe of the 
cook and so considered his exploit 
something worth boasting about. As 
he saw Bella come out the door, he 
hurried up. But to his surprise, in- 
stead of greeting him with her usual 



smile, she faced him with a decided 

"Well," she exclaimed, "you've 
done it now, all right." 

"Done what?" he asked. 

"Done for us both," she snapped. 

"Didn't do nothin' 'cept to old 
Hanrihan," he answered sulkily. 

"Didn't, eh? Didn't you know 
you might just as well swatted the boss 
as old Hanrihan? Didn't you know 
you'd git yerself fired an' me too?" 

"You," exclaimed 'Gene. "Ye 
meanter say they fired you?" 

"Ain't you my friend? Didn't I 
have t' back you up? What you 
think they'd do — raise my pay?" 

"I didn't think of you," he half 

"I s'pose not," she returned. 
"That's the trouble with all you men 
— you don't think till after the 

She seemed to be taking the matter 
very much to heart. She hadn't 
once looked at him. She kept her 
eyes on the ground. She appeared 
nervous and uneasy. He braced up. 

"Never mind, Bella," he said, "I'll 
get 'nother job in a day or two. I 
didn't take to that one, nohow. I 
couldn't stand it. There's plenty of 
better jobs nor that." 

Something in his self-confident air 
made her look up and search his face. 
She noticed that his eyes were a trifle 
glazed, that his face was flushed. 

"Look a here," she demanded, 
"you been hittin' the booze?" 

"Jus' a mug o' ale," he answered 
with exaggerated carelessness. 

She drew a quick breath. 

"So that's it! That's what made 
you so fresh?" 

He turned away uneasily. 

"You don't know how thirsty a 
feller gets in that hole," he answered. 

For a moment she studied his face. 
He looked so big and handsome and 
childlike that it hurt her to see him 
like this. But she wasn't any fool. 
She knew what this meant. She took 
a step or two away as though to get 
out of danger. 

"So that's it," she repeated. 

She lifted her head. 

"Take it from me," she exclaimed, 
"I don't mix up in that kind of deal. 
If you're goneter fight booze, you fight 
it alone. Right here's where we part 

"What you mean?" he asked. 

" I'm talkin' English, ain't I ? Plain 
English? Make it as strong as you 
like — I don't mix up with no man 
what plays that game." 

"I didn't mean no harm, Bella," 
he answered. 

"Course you didn't," she returned, 
her eyes snapping, "course you didn't. 
These guys what tank up and then 
starts in to smash the furniture never 
means no harm. They's just fooling 
that's all. An' when it's all over they 
didn't know what they was doin'. So 
you haster forgive 'em. Not for 

She started off down the avenue. 
He followed after her in alarm. The 
very thought of her leaving him alone 
in this way frightened him. 

"Don't be so hasty, Bella," he 
pleaded. "I won't do it again. Hon- 
est, I won't." 

She continued towards the Ferry* 
He kept along by her side. 

"I didn't mean no harm," he re- 
peated. "An' as far's losing the job 
goes I'm glad of it. I'll get suthin' 
else. A feller told me he could get me 
a job on the Ferry. I'll get twicet as 
much for it and have a chance to work 
daytimes. It's outer doors too, and 
thar's where I belong. It's a kinder 
seafarin' life and I allers wanted that." 

He rattled on in a breath, but she 
gave no sign of interest. He changed 
his tactics. 

"That place was makin' me sick. I 
couldn't eat nothin' and couldn't sleep 

She glanced out at him from the 
corner of her eye. That sounded true 
enough. She had watched him lose 
weight and noticed that his eyes were 
heavy. It had worried her. 

"I'll have the other job in a day or 
two and it'll give me a chance to pay 
you back," he ran on. "I've wanted 
to do that all 'long." 

{To be continued) 

New England Magazine 




COVER DESIGN — The Army Nurse. Detail from a Statue by Bela Pratt 

BEAUTIFUL NEW ENGLAND — Autumn Foliacb 350 

FRONTISPIECE — Hon. John W. Weeks. 354 

HON. JOHN W. WEEKS . " 355 


CAROLAWOERISHOFFER — Her Life and Work . . Constance M. Stford . 358 

THE POSSIBILITIES OF PINKIE . Christina Emerson . . 363 

WOMEN'S WORK FOR WOMEN . Etta Bomeisler . . 367 

THE GUARDIAN Frederick Orin Bartlett 378 

HELPING NEW ENGLAND GROW .... Sylvester Baxter . 385 

Entered at Boston Post Office as second-class matter. Copyright, 1010, by New England Maga» 
nine Co.. $1.75 A YEAR. Foreign Postage, seventy-five cents additional. 15 CENTS A NUMBER 

Pope Building, 221 Columbus A?e^ Boston, Massachusetts 

^Beautiful &£ew England 

Studies of the Distinctive Features 
of New England Landscape 

Autumn Foliage 

BLACK and white refuse to attempt 
a disclosure of the beauty of a 
New England autumn, for which 
I know but one characterizing 
word — luminous. It is the beauty of 
old vellum illuminated by thirteenth- 
century faith and devotion. The page 
of nature becomes a missal. The te 
deums are sung from screened choirs. 
It is the Gothic Festival of Nature. 
Pointed arches and traceried windows 
were invented in the autumn. I have 
no historic verification for such a state- 
ment, only that inner perception of the 
fitness of the thing to which facts are 
always found to conform. I know noth- 
ing less melancholy than falling leaves. 
Only an artificial sentimentality has as- 
cribed to it that quality. It is the most 
inspiring aspect assumed by our northern 
landscape. The play of light is frolic- 
some, recreational, confident in its abun- 
dance, prodigal, lavish, joyous. We should 
invent a method for its liquefication and 
enrich the world with a wine, that by its 
innumerable perfections would conquer 
the most surly Puritanism. Joy is more 
reverent than melancholy. Melancholy 
insults the fullness and glory of the year. 

■" , 





New England Magazine 


OCTOBER, 1912 

Number 2 

Hon John W. Weeks 

SAFETY for a democracy lies in 
the unselfish devotion to her 
interests of citizens of excep- 
tional ability in the conduct of 
affairs, and in this age, in which the 
prizes held out to private enterprise 
are so high, and the demands of private 
business so engrossing, it becomes in- 
creasingly difficult to secure for the 
nation the time and toil of such men. 
History teaches us that the great age 
of every democracy, such as Greece, 
Rome, and Venice, has been that in 
which their ablest men were found 
busied with affairs of state. In our 
own country there never was a time 
when the need was greater. Com- 
mercial questions are to the forefront. 
There is need of new monetary legis- 
lation. The opening of the Panama 
Canal will give rise to naval and mer- 
cantile maritime questions far-reach- 
ing in their influence. Commercial 
reorganization is not an academic 
question; it is a movement that is under 
rapid headway, and new legislation to 
fit modern business conditions is im- 
peratively demanded. The various 
branches of the public service, such as 
the post office, require radical over- 
hauling. Science is pointing out new 
methods of conservation, new dangers, 
and new needs. 

Who is to legislate for us on these 
complex questions? It is very easy to 
generalize about them. We can say 
that the monetary equilibrium should 
be automatically maintained so that 
financial panics might become im- 
possible; post office maintenance 

should not require a tax outside of its 
own stamp tax, and the service should 
be extended to meet the more diversi- 
fied needs of a more complex civiliza- 
tion; conservation of natural resources 
should be a distinct care of the govern- 
ment, etc., etc. It is very easy to say 
things of this nature, but to show just 
how an automatically elastic currency 
can be secured, just how the public 
service may be improved, just how 
conservation of natural resources may 
be brought about, and to shape the 
wise legislation that accomplishes the 
end, surely that is not a work which 
any average citizen can do, however 
sincere, patriotic, and honest his in- 

To commit the shaping of monetary 
legislation to a man who would be 
hopelessly lost and out of his depths 
among the accounts of an ordinary 
banking house is absurd. But it is no 
more so than for maritime and naval 
legislation to be formulated by a man 
whose knowledge of shipping is con- 
fined to an occasional ride on an ex- 
cursion boat. And the same may be 
said of the post office and of questions 
of conservation. 

Political ferment is flooding Con- 
gress with new men. That is all very 
well. Congress should be responsive 
to public sentiment. But one of the 
things that public sentiment should 
demand is the retention of men in 
whose integrity all have confidence, 
and whose training and natural abili- 
ties fit for the work that they have in 




After March 4, 1913, Captain John 
W. Weeks and Senator Burton are, 
for example, the only two Republicans 
left in Congress of the monetary com- 
mission that has been for some years 
studying that most difficult subject. 
To this work Captain Weeks brings 
the training of a banker and the finan- 
cial sense that is a gift of only a few 
exceptional men. He has given years 
of earnest study to all sides of this 
many-sided and intricate problem. 
Enlightened public sentiment should 
demand his return to Congress, for 
this reason if for no other. The people 
have confidence in Captain Weeks. 
He is an Annapolis man, and no in- 
stitution turns out men of a deeper 
patriotism. Trained as a boy and 
young man under the flag, a reverence 
for it has been bred into his nature. 
Annapolis men do not desert the ship, 
nor haul down the flag under fire. The 
severe and exact training received at 
our great national naval academy, 
which is the pride of every citizen, has 
been followed up by service in the 
naval reserve. Captain Weeks brings 
not only the spirit but the technical 
knowledge thus acquired to the service 
of Congress. He is a member of a 
great and well-known banking firm of 
international reputation and inter- 
national business. His knowledge is 
that of a practical expert. New Eng- 
land common sense demands his return 
to Congress. The business community 
has no other thought. To fail to 
return him would violate the confi- 
dence of the business community in 
the intelligence of the electorate. 

Monetary and naval affairs have 
not absorbed Mr. Weeks's attention 
in Congress. As a member of the Post 
Office and Post Roads Committee 
he has given close attention to that 
vitally important branch of the public 
service. The work of this committee 
is unfinished. To deliberately with- 
draw one of its most important mem- 
bers at this time would be like hailing 
a liner at sea and calling off one of her 
engineers. The conduct of the post 
office lies close to the vital needs of 
many lines of business and affects all. 

Public sentiment is making demands 
upon it in no uncertain voice. We 
cannot expect those demands to be 
properly met, if we allow the expert 
knowledge of such men as Mr. Weeks 
to be suddenly withdrawn. He has 
won the confidence of the expert ser- 
vants of the department, than whom 
none are quicker to detect incompe- 
tence and ignorance. 

Mr. Weeks is the author of bird- 
protection legislation now pending. 
This may seem a trivial issue. But the 
scientific conservationist knows better. 
Massachusetts alone is spending hun- 
dreds of thousands of dollars for moth 
protection that would never have been 
needed if such a law as that which Mr. 
Weeks has introduced had been en- 
acted years ago. His own district 
carries a heavy item in the annual 
budget on this account, and he has 
shown himself, by introducing this re- 
form, a wise legislator alive to the 
actual needs of his own constituents 
as well as to the nation at large. 

It may be a cross to Mr. Weeks to 
return to public life. To no man 
could the call of private life be more 
alluring. But we have not even con- 
sidered that point. He comes from a 
school where men are taught to ignore 
private considerations in the public 
interests, to nail the flag to the mast, 
and he has always shown himself to be 
that kind of a man. I do not believe 
that Mr. Weeks will withdraw, even 
though a contest for his seat should be 
forced upon him. The district which 
he represents is well supplied with able 
men. There is a large possibility that 
Mr. Weeks should be called upon to fill 
Mr. Crane's place in the Senate. No 
solution of the senatorial situation 
could be happier. But such a possi- 
bility should not blind the voters of 
the thirteenth district to the first 
and foremost issue — that of re- 
turning to Congress an able servant 
of the people whose presence there is 
urgently demanded by a national 
sentiment, and than whom none ever 
served his own constituents with a 
more careful attention to their needs. 
The New England Magazine is not 



the political organ of any party. It is 
an organ of New England sentiment, 
and that occasionally calls upon us to 
express political opinions. In the 
present instance there can be no ques- 

tion but that the cool, conservative, 
sensible, scientific spirit for which New 
England stands calls upon Mr. Weeks 
to go back to Congress, and upon the 
voters of his district to send him there. 

The Republican Party an Issue 

THE Republican party was or- 
ganized to enforce a solution 
of the slavery question as a 
national issue under a liberal 
but just construction of the powers 
granted by the Constitution. On this 
account it was stigmatized as the 
" Black Republican** and "loose con- 
struction" party, although in the 
past, as to-day, it has more often been 
called upon to protect constitutional 
reservations of power than to extend 
them by interpretation at variance 
with their evident intention. 

In the struggle that followed the 
organization of this party, our na- 
tional life, for the first time, came into 
a full consciousness of itself, and into 
the spirit of the party that guided it 
through that perilous time entered, 
as an unwritten tradition, a vivid 
sense of the national unity as it 
emerged through that first full exer- 
cise of all of its constitutional powers. 
At the same time and in the same 
manner was born a sensitive regard 
for that unique balance of judicial, 
legislative, and executive functions 
which is our frame of government, and 
through which our liberties have been 
safeguarded on the one hand from 
license, and on the other from the 
aggressions of power. This inherit- 
ance is the vital spark of the Re- 
publican party. Because of this in- 
heritance and its resulting clarity of 
judgment on all questions relating 
to the duties and proper restraints of 
governmental action, this party has, 
even in its most corrupt days, given 
to the country a safe, strong, and wise 

administration. For a number of 
years now, the corruption that in- 
fests political life, both at home and 
abroad, has been receding under the 
castigation of public opinion, but the 
need for the most careful exercise of 
the political consciousness of the true 
duties and restraints of our govern- 
ment in its various branches was never 
more urgent than at the present 

Those who know our country best 
cannot but view with alarm the possi- 
bility of an administration pledged to 
political platforms which unduly exalt 
the executive branch of government 
(ever the banal tendency of democra- 
cies) and threaten the stability of all 
that the constructive genius of our 
political life has reared through long 
and bloody wars and bitter struggles. 
For entering upon these wild govern- 
mental experiments no shadow of ex- 
cuse exists beyond the restlessness of 
the discontented and the personal 
ambitions of the selfish. 

With an ever-increasing reverence 
and faith, on the other hand, the true 
patriotism of our land turns to the 
present leader of the Republican 
party, whose integrity, clear-sighted- 
ness, and strength loom larger as his 
administration nears its end. Through 
a time when the waters have been 
strangely roiled and troubled, he has 
kept us from the rocks, and to make 
certain his re-election should engage 
the earnest efforts of every single- 
minded and patriotic citizen. 

F. W. B. 

Carola Woerishoffer 


Published by the Class of 1907 of Bryn Mawr College 


ERVICE" has become such a 
faddish term in present-day 
elocution and literature of 
the social, industrial, and 
political world that it begins to stand 
for an ethical truism. Like the time 
bedraggled phrases, "the square deal," 
"the rights of the people," we are 
beginning to postulate it because axi- 
omatic. Similarly the cry for "social 
and industrial justice" comes from 
every corner of the land. And it 
means, not an appeal for socialism, nor 
for equal suffrage, nor for any par- 
ticular social legislation nor particular 
party platforms. It means all of this 
and more. It means the old world 
question which transcends all classi- 
fied, pigeonholed movements. It is 
the one cry that is based upon innate 
first principles, namely, human sym- 
pathy. Yet the intellectual leaders 
of the "spirit of the age" are using 
these terms as technical utterances 
for their particular cults. They are 
fast becoming not only common but 
shabby, indeed, and meaningless, be- 
cause in many cases undefined and 
consequently unheeded and ignored. 
Still they remain the symbols of the 
goal of human achievement. Farther 
than the practical application of these 
altruistic ideals society cannot hope 
to arrive, at least with its present feeble 
vision. When they shall have become 
of the warp and woof of the social 
order the world question will have 
become simplified. 

The spirit of such ideals is personi- 
fied in degree in the brief life work of 
Carola Woerishoffer, who met with a 
fatal accident in September, 1911, 
w r hile inspecting labor camps near 
Cannonsville, N. Y., as an officer of 
the State Labor Department. Her 
class in Bryn Mawr College offers to 
the public its testimony of her life in 

college and her four years of service as 
a social worker, in a neat little vol- 
ume, appreciative and commemorative. 

The book contains a brief introduc- 
tory biographical sketch by Miss Ida 
Tarbell, which appeared in the July 
issue of the American Magazine. Miss 
Tarbell shows the rich inheritance 
which Carola Woerishoffer received 
from her mother and from her grand- 
mother, — an inheritance of the reali- 
zation of her obligation to the social 
world of which every one is a part, as 
well as a large material sum. Miss 
Tarbell interprets the large sympathy 
always shown toward the afflicted 
and unprivileged classes by her grand- 
mother, Mrs. Oswald Ottendorfer, who 
at first alone managed the great paper, 
the New Yorker Staats-Zeitung, and 
by her mother, who was a prophetess 
of modern social ideals. 

The inspiration from Sargent's por- 
trait of President Thomas to the child 
of nine years, and her determination 
to go to "Miss Thomas's school" is 
indicative of the stable character of 
the young woman as Bryn Mawr knew 
her, and of the passion for life which 
she transplanted from college to the 
active world of New York. The same 
spirit dominated her life in Bryn Mawr 
as that which prompted her to refuse 
to allow her annual income of many 
tens of thousands of dollars to work 
instead of herself. Insisting upon 
starting in the ranks of hard work, she 
worked for four hot summer months 
in the laundries of New York as one 
of that class of workers in order to 
give to the Consumers' League some 
much-needed data. She refused to 
live beyond the salary of her earnings, 
which was twelve hundred dollars a 
year. Her inherited income was re- 
served for gifts. 



This little book contains, besides 
Miss Tarbell's introduction, the pro- 
ceedings of the meeting held at Green- 
wich House in memory of Miss Woer- 
ishoffer, who was associated with and 
lived much of her time at the house. 
The addresses, which are printed just 
as delivered, were made by prominent 
men and women who had trained her, or 
had worked with her, and who agreed 
in their admiration of her work toward 
industrial democracy in the city of 
New York, as district leader of the 
Woman Suffrage Association, as the 
releaser of the shirt-waist strikers 
from imminent prison confinement 
when she furnished her own bond of 
seventy-five thousand dollars, as savior 
of the treasury of the Congestion 
Committee at the time of an emer- 
gency, and her work as a comrade of 
Slav or Teuton, Greek or Latin, at 
Greenwich House. Some of those who 
addressed this memorial meeting were 
Professor Seligman, Hon. George Mc- 
Anemy, president of the Borough of 
Manhattan; Pres. M. Carey Thomas 
of Bryn Mawr College; Prof. H. R. 
Mussey of Columbia University; Prof. 
J. E. Croswell of Brearly School; Mrs. 
Florence Kelley of the Consumers' 
League and the Congestion Committee; 
Miss Marot, secretary of the Women's 
Trade Union League; Professor Sea- 
ger, president of the Association 
for Labor Legislation, and Mrs. Vladi- 
mar Simkhovitch of Greenwich House. 

Besides the addresses of this meet- 
ing there are several reprints of "in 
memoriam" articles. One is from 
the Survey, September 30, 1911, by 
Vladimar Simkhovitch, in which he 
shows Miss WoerishofTer's keen realism 
and courage as president of the Label 
Shop, and her interest in the work of 
the Taylor Steel and Iron Company of 
High Bridge, N. J., to make of High 
Bridge a model industrial village, 
which led her to become director of the 

Bryn Mawr College is peculiarly 
qualified and equipped to prepare for 
service and to serve its comparatively 
small social unit, — its sifted and lim- 
ited four or five hundred students, — 


because they represent a true democ- 
racy of the mind. A social sympathy 
can only come in a school which pro- 
hibits secret organizations of any sort 
and which is truly self-governed, a 
school in which the social lite is a nor- 
mal, healthy outgrowth of intercourse 
between students resulting from schol- 
arly pursuits. Such intercourse neces- 
sarily produces a social sense, indeed a 
social common sense. Such a college 
is Bryn Mawr, and such was Carola 
WoerishofTer's preparation. 

The service which Bryn Mawr ren- 
dered Carola WoerishofTer has been 
paid back by her in full measure. By 
the third item of her will she left to 
her Alma Mater a legacy of seven 
hundred and fifty thousands of dollars, 
which is to be placed aside as a per- 
manent endowment fund, the income 
from it to be used as the college shall 
see fit. By this bequest she stands 
next to the founder of the college. She 
insures its future and the maintenance 
of its present high standards of scholar- 
ship. She reflects in rare degree the 
spirit of the institution and of its 
president, — the spirit of altruism. 
Her short life span of twenty-six years 
was lived to the full. 

The St. James Theater and its 


NO theater in Boston reflects 
more directly the personality 
of one man than the new St. 
James Theater on Hunting- 
ton Avenue, in the heart of what is 
coming to be regarded as the literary 
and artistic center of the city. This 
enterprise has been fostered, built, 
and managed by its proprietor, M. H. 
Gulesian, the well-known Boston 

To know what the St. James 
Theater is, and will be, it is necessary 
to know Mr. Gulesian. Ultimately 
it may be true that in order to know 
Mr. Gulesian it will be necessary to 

know the St. James Theater, for he is 
putting his whole heart and soul into 
this, his latest enterprise. No detail 
of construction has escaped his careful 
scrutiny. He has been his own con- 
tractor, his own supervising architect, 
and is now the active manager of the 

Mr. Gulesian has had a picturesque 
and unique career, and all that he does 
reflects the individuality and force 
which have made such a career possible. 
One does not expect a weak adherence 
to tradition for tradition's sake in his 
plans, nor departure from tradition 
merely for the sake of novelty. The 






building of the St. James is an illus- 
tration of this characteristic inde- 
pendence of mind. While the plan 
of the auditorium departs in no es- 
sential to success from that which 
has borne the test of experience, it 
nevertheless embodies some quite radi- 
cal innovations that are Mr. Gulesian's 
own ideas. The most striking of these 
is the treatment of the gallery, to 
which is given a broad sweep and a 

depth that lends it the appearance 
and the advantages of a second 
"orchestra." Mr. Gulesian has here 
seized upon an idea certain to find 
imitators, as it is founded on a need. 
The gallery is often the most de- 
sirable place from which to see and 
hear a staged performance. The num- 
ber of intelligent people who take 
gallery seats by preference, regardless 
of considerations of cost, is on the 




increase. Mr. Gulesian's plan effec- 
tively accomplishes the promotion of 
the gallery to its true relative impor- 
tance. The large seating capacity of 
this great overhanging orchestra does 
away with the necessity for a second 
gallery. The result is a finely unified 
audience that must prove to be an 
inspiration to performers. 

The approaches to the audience- 
room, and particularly to the gallery, 
are also handled with originality and 
with a discerning eye, both for prac- 
tical requirements and artistic effect. 
The stage facilities leave nothing to be 
desired by the most exacting presen- 
tations, and the decoration of the 
theater is winning, savoring, of course, 
of that sumptuousness which appears 
to be inseparable from an American 
playhouse or hotel, but with far more 
restraint than is common, and with a 
successful avoidance of cheap gaudi- 
ness. The always festal feeling of a 
white and gold combination has been 
used throughout. 

Occupying a portion of the ground 
floor of the building, and so close as to 
seem almost an attachment of the 
theater, is an attractive restaurant. 
Provision is also made for a service at 
tables placed on the pavement in 
front of the theater, after the manner of 
a Parisian boulevard cafe. A screen 
of flowers and greenery separates this 
attractive little esplanade from the 
sidewalk. The whole is brilliantly 
lighted and supplied with excellent 
music. Such a thing exists nowhere 
else in America, and its development 
will be watched with the keenest 

Grouping these unique features we 
see that their originator is planning 
something more than "another show- 
house." He has in mind a life more 
frankly and sociably joyous than 
America, and particularly Puritan New 
England, has ever allowed of itself. 
There is a whole philosophy of living 
back of the plan of the St. James 
Theater, and back of the philosophy 
is the philosopher. For in all that 
Mr. Gulesian undertakes, shrewd and 
successful business man though he is, 
one finds the brooding philosopher — 
a mind meditating deeply on life and 
the needs and the welfare of hu- 
manity. In this instance it is a phi- 
losophy of living that Mr. Gulesian 
has worked out in his own life, and 
the center of it is the home, and yet 
it is a life more social and joyous than 
the majority of Americans grasp. 

All of this is much for one man to 
undertake. Mr. Gulesian is a rich 
man. He has already expended in the 
neighborhood of half a million dollars 
on his enterprise. He is a man of 
tireless energy and of great persist- 
ence, a practical and adroit executive, 
and has the habit of success. The 
present appearance is that the Back 
Bay district of Boston is permanently 
enriched by a unique institution that 
will have no small share in shaping 
the life of the people. 

The Possibilities of Pinkie 


CHARLOTTE filled her lungs 
with fresh air and her soul 
with resolution as th* car 
started down the incline of 
the bridge. In a moment more she 
would be in the hot, noisome city 
streets, reeking with the odors of de- 
caying vegetables and Jewish per- 
fumes, a combination so stifling that 
from her alighting at Linden Street to 
her return to the river on the home- 
ward trip her breath was taken in 
tiny gasps to be exhaled as rapidly as 
possible. Dodging barrels of refuse, 
dirty babies in "shimmerettes," groups 
of boys huddled on the hot sidewalk 
over marbles or more fascinating and 
less apparent games, fat Jewish women 
with bundles and babies, Charlotte 
reached the comparative quiet of "the 
Avenue." The Back Bay knows "the 
Avenue" as that delightful, sunny ex- 
panse of park and well-kept roadway, 
bordered by beautiful houses; in winter 
the parade-ground of the upper class; 
in summer deserted, since the masses 
seldom stray so far. Linden Street 
knows "the Avenue" as a boarded, 
blind alley into which the sun peeps 
only at mid-day, bordered by tumble- 
down wooden buildings, for the most 
part uninhabitable. From "the Ave- 
nue" runs Linden Place, and from this 
Linden Court, in and yet in, more and 
more ramshackle the wooden tene- 
ments, less and less the sunshine and 
air, and down at the very end of all 
lived Pinkie. 

Pinkie Driscoll was the prettiest, 
naughtiest child that the Linden Street 
quarter had ever sent to the settlement 
kindergarten. Then it was that Char- 
lotte, in her student days, had met and 
conquered her by most un-Froebelian 
methods. In the absence of the prin- 
cipal, Pinkie was trying every spell 

of badness that a five-year-old can 
incantate. Moved from the table, 
she drew all eyes towards her by mys- 
terious, whispered directions, much 
more exciting than Charlotte's; iso- 
lated in the anteroom, she battered 
rhythmically upon the shaky door. 
Then Charlotte spanked her. Into 
Pinkie's beautiful, defiant, blue eyes 
came a look of meditation and, strange 
to say, admiration, never before visi- 
ble in the kindergarten. Charlotte 
was the one nearer tears — Charlotte, 
who had lost her temper and deserted 
her principles but — she had con- 

From that day Pinkie obeyed and 
gave such allegiance as her anarchistic 
nature could give. The inalienable 
right to act upon every impulse started 
in the active centers under the red- 
gold curls was the law of Pinkie; next 
came the right of the Driscolls to be 
maintained against all outsiders; lastly 
the right of the Irish-American against 
Sheenie, Dago, and inferior Americans. 

The selection of the far end of the 
court as a place of residence by the 
Driscolls was the result of Mrs. Dris- 
coll's need of unoccupied space about 
her when she was "sick." Under 
those circumstances she regarded near 
neighbors as undesirable, and even 
neighbors who were not fussy recip- 
rocated the feeling. Consequently 
farther and farther into the mouldy 
firetrap the home of the Driscolls 
had withdrawn. Altogether out they 
would have been forced to go but for 
the good-natured "boss" of the court, 
who managed to extort more rent 
from the tenants and put on fewer 
repairs than any other factor — ■ 
thanks to his Irish kindliness when 
things went wrong. The gentle lady 
who owned the pestilential pile had 




''perfect confidence " in O'Reilly. Re- 
ports from settlement workers, show- 
ing danger to health from dark, damp 
tenements, danger from fire in the 
blind alleys, surrounded by wooden 
buildings, could not unsettle the ease of 
mind arising from this confidence, nor 
call her from her home upon that other 
avenue to examine conditions in the 
avenue she owned. 

Halfway down the court, Char- 
lotte was met by yells of rage and pain 
in unmistakable Pinkie tones, by 
malediction in Ma Driscoll tones, by 
Patsy making for the street, his 
face expressive of impish glee and fear. 
No word of explanation would Patsy 
stop to offer. In the kitchen she 
found Mrs. Driscoll binding Pinkie's 
leg in a piece of dirty cotton to stanch 
the flow of blood. Patsy had aimed 
the broken plate lower than he in- 
tended, but the damage was sufficient. 
Yet Pinkie's yells had more of rage 
than pain in them. 

"Lem me get him. I kill him. 
Lem me go. Oh!" cried Pinkie. 

Mrs. Driscoll fastened the bandage 
with a crooked pin and looked up to 
greet Charlotte with a sullen nod. 
The child started for the door, but 
the pain was too great; she fell back 
upon the floor and lay there a writhing 
mass of pain and hatred. Charlotte 
suggested calling the settlement nurse. 

"I won't have Miss Sharp. She'll 
hurt. Go away!" sobbed the child. 

J 4 Pinkie!" said Charlotte, "we're 
going on a picnic to the beach. All 
the girls are going. You want to go, 
don't you, dear? You can go wading 
if your leg gets well." 

The tear-stained face was slowly 
turned upward. A sidelong glance, 
keen, doubting, desirous, seemed to 
search Charlotte's motives, the native 
tendency to ask more than was offered 
arose, and a sob-strangled voice de- 

"Can't I go swimming?" 

"Perhaps, if we can get a bathing 
suit for you." 

"Ain't you got one? I can go in 
my dress." 

"We'll see. We are going to have 

lunch on the beach and a phonograph 
to sing songs." Charlotte piled at- 
tractions to make bearable her next 

"Now I will go for Miss Sharp." 

The sobs made a rapid crescendo to 
yells that were trying even to Mrs. Dris- 
coll's nerves. She shook the child and 
bade her shut up or she would see to 
her. Taking advantage of this mo- 
mentary tendency to control on the 
mother's part, Charlotte hurried away. 

She found the settlement nurse in 
the Avenue, coming from weighing 
the Regan baby, who was dwindling 
despite modified milk and medicine, 
administered by Miss Sharp herself 
in the two daily visits she found time to 
make, how only a settlement nurse 
could tell. 

Charlotte was rather proud of her 
own daintiness, but the immacu- 
lateness of Miss Sharp, emerging from 
squalid tenements, on a muggy day, 
seemed supernatural. The unspottable 
quality of angel's wings belonged to 
the nurse's garb. Pinkie only whim- 
pered when Miss Sharp, with appar- 
ent disregard of the painfulness of the 
process, bathed and dressed the ugly 
cut. Charlotte admitted to herself 
that she would not have dared even to 
whimper under that alert domination, 
but that Pinkie, the unsuppressible, 
should have been thus subdued clearly 
proved the superhuman quality of the 

The day of the picnic dawned 
clear and very hot. Not even the 
blazing of the July sun could drive 
from the steps of the Settlement House 
the crowd of children waiting for the 
chance of a good time. Cold winter 
days find the same crowd of impatient 
waiters, ready to slip in if the door 
open a crack. As chilly mortals are 
drawn by the comfort of a cheerful 
fire, so these soul-chilled little beings 
are drawn by the comfort, the pleasure, 
the love that stream forth so abun- 
dantly from this "House of Infinite 

Nine superficially clean little girls 
and dirty Pinkie awaited Charlotte. 
Mrs. Driscoll was "sick," and three- 



year-old Ellen was thrown upon her 
sister's motherliness, which was sur- 
prisingly tender if intermittent. That 
this wild, defiant creature should have 
such possibilities as a "little mother" 
was a constant wonder. Since Pinkie's 
fostering instincts arose with the be- 
numbing of Mrs. Driscoll's, Ellen 
was not so badly cared for, according 
to Linden Street standards. 

Mingled cheers and jeers from the 
uninvited followed the little procession 
on its way to the car. Its members 
were too happy to do more than make 
faces at enemies and shout the mystic 
word "beach" to friends. The 
thought of taking ten children on the 
cars was a nightmare to Charlotte. 
Conductors and kindly passengers 
assisted the rushing swarm to places, 
but no conductor ever waited for 
Charlotte to count before starting the 
car. The vision of the child that might 
have been left at some transfer station 
wailed through the restless night that 
always followed one of these expeditions. 

Winding country road, fields of 
daisies and buttercups, curve of sandy 
beach, and stretch of blue, Charlotte 
rejoiced that for a day she could make 
this rich gift to these waifs of the city 
street. The children saw, a road for 
racing until tired, then to be grumbled 
about; flowers for grabbing, until 
hands were full, then to be dropped; 
sand for digging, also for pelting; 
water for wading, also for splashing; 
but a whole day of racing, flower 
picking, digging, and wading meant 
fun galore, and no one can tell how 
much of the beauty sank into the little 

A plentiful lunch and a fascinating 
phonograph which sang street songs 
and beautiful operatic selections sup- 
plied satisfaction for the less strenuous 
moments. Indeed, Sarah Levinson 
seemed glued to the mouth of the 
phonograph, nor could the delight of 
deep sand wells, nor the tickling of 
cool water about the toes, draw her 
from it. She gathered flowers and 
dropped them not, also cakes at 
lunch time. All of which showed 
that Sarah was true to the artistic 

and acquisitive inheritance of her 

Pinkie discovered possibilities in a 
ten-foot bluff that fell off sharply to 
the sea. Charlotte saw the flash of 
golden locks disappearing over the 
edge and fearful that the other girls 
would follow, sheeplike, rushed to 
restrain them. But for them there 
was daring enough in peering over 
the edge and watching the attempts of 
the small figure below to climb the 
slipping sand. The momentum 
gained in the descent carried the 
child well into the water, yet, when she 
returned to the waiting group by way 
of the narrow beach, her face was ex- 
pressive of disgust and defiance rather 
than fear, disgust for the cowards who 
failed to follow her lead, defiance of 
the expected reprimand. Charlotte 
was pale, but Pinkie still rosy, though 
the red blood streamed from the 
opened wound on her leg. A fox, 
baffled and wounded, might have 
looked as this untamed child looked 
while her wound was being dressed. 
The girls were too wise to jeer at 
failure when between the snarling, 
pink lips they saw the gleam of sharp, 
white teeth. Teeth and nails were not 
yet a last resort with this savage little 
creature. The tenderness with which 
the woman-child held sleepy little 
Ellen, during the return trip to the 
city, showed strange contrasts in un- 
disciplined human instincts. 

A few such holidays in summer, 
many winter evenings spent in the 
warm settlement room with the com- 
fort of hot chocolate and crackers to 
make work more attractive and to add 
nourishment to the irregular home fare, 
brought Charlotte close to these chil- 
dren. She watched the development 
from unkempt wildness to flirtatious 
demureness. With it came somewhat 
more of cleanliness, much more elab- 
orateness in hair-dressing and — rib- 
bons. A foreigner once said to Char- 
lotte, "The American child is the 
child of resplendent ribbons." In this 
respect the Americanization of these 
children of alien ancestry was both 
rapid and luxuriant. Bows of most 



delicate tints and of enormous size 
bedecked the back of each head. At 
work over the tables, the club ap- 
peared a collection of gorgeous butter- 
flies. Even Pinkie appeared in rib- 
bons, but whether from necessity or 
the innate taste that was beginning 
to show itself in the putting on of the 
shabby clothes, she chose black rib- 
bons which made the red curls look 
more golden. She was growing into a 
slim, straight-featured beauty, her 
defiance and daring softened, but still 
visible in the glitter of the blue eyes. 
Charlotte feared for her as for none 
of the other girls whose ordinary pretti- 
ness fitted better their ordinary lives. 
But Pinkie answered her words of 
warning, laughingly: 

"Don't be afraid for me, Miss Char- 
lotte. The men say I'm a wise kid." 

Hardly the school life over before 
the transformation into shop girl took 
place. Gigantic department stores, 
holding fall sales in July, swallowed 
two-thirds of the club members. Char- 
lotte descended into the lifeless atmos- 
phere of the basement department 
that she might observe the effect. 

Pinkie stood in the midst of a group 
of unwilling bearers of slips and par- 
cels, holding them by some picturesque 
tale of gossip or adventure, while 
drawling shouts of elegant sales-ladies 
pierced the air and customers fidgeted 
at delay. Not until the wrathful 
floor-walker bore down upon the group 
did it disperse. Gulls before the on- 
coming storm fly not more swiftly land- 
ward than bundle-girls to counters. 
One laggard only remained to catch 
the fury — not Pinkie. Quite out of 
breath with hurrying, she was first to 
return slip and bundle to hustling 

When Charlotte asked permission to 
speak with Pinkie, the face of the 
floor-walker, which had shown signs of 
clearing, gathered storm-clouds again. 
He saw in Charlotte's appearance no 
sign of the flamboyance typical of this 
store's customers; a relative would 
never have been fool enough to ask 
permission, but would have talked an 
hour with no thought of interrupting 

duties; here was a bothersome butter- 
in to business methods, a spy upon the 
treatment of these impudent girls, 
who must be kept under, in more senses 
than one, while the rush was on and 
discharged when it was over. 

"Of course you can speak to her, if 
not busy," he grudgingly replied. 
" She's doin' fairly good," in answer to 
Charlotte's question in regard to work 
and behavior. 

"Oh, Miss Charlotte, ain' I glad 
to see yer!" 

Pinkie came forward with out- 
stretched hand and the manner of a 
duchess. In a week's time she had 
attained the shrill drawl and the man- 
ner. Here was something quite new — 
a superior Pinkie patronizing an inex- 
perienced Charlotte. Splurgy cus- 
tomers, elegant sales-ladies, giggling 
bundle-girls paused to eye the friend, 
puzzled to fit her into Pinkie's en- 

"Do you like the work, Pinkie?" 

"Lots of fun, but is awful hard and 
awful hot down here. I ain* goin* 
to stay if they keep me down here an* 
the boss is that ugly!" A newly ac- 
quired shrug and a spreading of the 
hands showed the unspeakable ugliness 
of the "boss." 

"Cash, come, girl," sounded from 
the counter. 

"Go, Pinkie," said Charlotte, ner- 
vously, "I must not keep you from 
your work." 

"Naw. Let Sheenie go. She ain* 
doin' nothin'." 

Sheenie did not budge. She was do- 
ing something — staring at Charlotte. 
The dark eyes with the dreamy droop 
of lid, the gorgeous Oriental curve and 
color of the mouth had a familiar 
look not altogether due to Jewish type. 

"Sarah Levinson!" 

"Yes, Miss Charlotte, I knew you 
right off." 

To the repeated call Pinkie went 
and "Sheenie" stayed to tell Char- 
lotte in better English and with a 
better manner than Pinkie's of her 
work in the store for a year past and 
of the promise of promotion in the fall. 
(Continued on page 371) 

Women's Work for Women 



OF the thousands who daily 
pass the unpretentious brick 
building, number two hun- 
dred and sixty-four Boylston 
Street, Boston, perhaps not more than 
a fraction of one per cent have any 
knowledge of the varied activities 
there carried on under the name of 
"The Women's Educational and In- 
dustrial Union." A much larger per- 
centage glance curiously at the little 
window display of dainty viands and 
into the basement lunch-room, and 
smile at what they conceive to be a 
business conducted on a strictly senti- 
mental basis, with visions of ladylike 
insufficiency at high prices. As a 
matter of curiosity, while I was gather- 
ing material for this article, I asked a 
number of usually well-informed per- 
wons what the Women's Educational 
and Industrial Union undertook to do. 
Several told me that it was a "kid 
glove employment bureau," others 
that it was the headquarters of the 
woman's suffrage movement, and 

others that it was a disguised Woman's 
Exchange. They were all guessing 
as to the aim of an organization with 
a membership of some four thousand 
women engaged for thirty-five years 
in a work that social students would 
instantly recognize as one of the sig- 
nificant signs of the times. A glance 
at the names on the active lists of 
committee workers reveals the fact 
that here many of the foremost women 
educators and social students find an 
opportunity for social service, and it 
becomes a matter of more than passing 
interest to learn what these women 
think that women need. What, in 
the opinion of so many intellectual 
leaders among women, is the work that 
women may do for women in a great 

I am not forgetting that the whole 
movement, as it stands to-day, is, in 
no small measure, a monument to the 
indomitable courage and earnest de- 
votion of the retiring president, Mrs. 
Mary Morton Kehew. I arn not for- 

36 7 



getting the historical background of an 
organization founded in 1877 — when 
the current thought would not to-day 
be classed as "modern." I am not 
forgetting the shaping power of finan- 
cial necessities, nor the emphasis cre- 
ated by individual workers of excep- 
tional ability. Bearing all these and 
the Boston atmosphere in mind, it 
still remains true, that the work of 
the Union is an index of the needs of 
women as interpreted by women. Our 
first interest, then, is to briefly outline 
the work carried on. 

The Women's Educational and In- 
dustrial Union was organized in 1877 
"to increase fellowship among women, 
in order to promote the best practical 
methods of securing their educational, 
industrial, and social advancement." 
Or, leaving the stilted phraseology of 
by-laws and preambles, the Union 
was formed to help women to step into 
the widening field of industrial life, so 
rapidly opening to them and for which 
they were so ill-prepared. 

The courage of the founders is im- 
pressive. Apparently they only knew 
that there was a need. Just what it 
was or how to meet it they relied upon 
the work itself to disclose, much as the 
man who could not swim, but jumped 
into the river to save his drowning 
friend with the words that, although 
he could not swim, doubtless he should 
learn before he reached him. The 
Union has been learning ever since it 
jumped into the troubled stream of 
economic life, and is learning still. 
Indeed, a very important branch of its 
work consists in a study of existing 
conditions. I refer to the research 
department, organized in 1905. "The 
department now offers to college 
women, who wish to prepare them- 
selves for active service in social 
economic work, three paid fellowships 
and four honorary fellowships in 
economic research. The purpose of 
the department is threefold: (1) To 
train young college women in research, 
so that they may become skilled in 
discovering and interpreting facts. 
(2) To accumulate data concerning the 
industrial relations of women. (3) 

To make public this data and the con- 
clusions reached, in order to stimulate 
public opinion and secure legislation 
for the protection and betterment of 
industrial workers throughout the 

Three important publications have 
been issued by the department, "Vo- 
cations for the Trained Woman," 
"Labor Laws and their Enforcement," 
"The Living Wage of Women Work- 
ers." The department is now study- 
ing the employment of women in the 
manufacture of women's wear, in- 
cluding textiles and boots and shoes. 

Not included in the work of the 
research department is the discovery 
of the needs of women in the working 
world through the daily work of the 
Union itself in attempting to meet 
these needs as they arise. A review of 
the successive year-books of the Union 
reveals the fact that the situation, as 
it has gradually developed, calls for an 
ever increased stress on special train- 
ing. The uninformed outsider has 
gathered an impression that the work 
of such organizations consists in en- 
deavoring to apply a little "culture" 
to working women. The actual work 
of the Union, however, is not so much 
to instill culture into working women, 
as to instill an ability to work into 
cultured women. The college girl 
who knows how to do nothing in 
particular is one of the Union's 
problems, and to fit her for work one 
of the Union's special fields of labor. 

Thirty-five years of continuous en- 
deavor must have produced a working 
system that is the result of experience 
rather than of theory. The actual 
method adopted by the Union to-day 
may be briefly described as the use 
of professional workers under volun- 
teer committees. The Union em- 
ploys some two hundred trained work- 
ers.. It has a number of committees, 
each in charge of a branch of the work. 
To one or more of these committees 
the workers report. Through the 
committee the moral force and finan- 
cial support of the four thousand 
women comprising the membership 
of the Union is behind the worker. 



The chairmen of the committees form 
an executive committee, through whom 
the work receives unity and direction. 
"The committee sustain an advisory 
relation to the Union departments 
with which they are connected, con- 
cerning themselves with matters of 
policy and the broader aspects of the 

The various departments are 
grouped under a general scheme di- 
viding them into Educational, Social 
Service, and Industrial Departments. 
In the Educational group we find 
vocational training, training of trade 
school and salesmanship teachers, 
salesmanship school, trade school 
shops, research department, appoint- 
ment bureau departments, and a 
special committee on economic effi- 
ciency of college women. The Social 
Service group includes the social 
work department, room registry, li- 
brary school luncheons, law and thrift, 
emergency loan fund, and legislative 
committees. The Industrial depart- 
ments are the Union lunch-rooms and 
New England kitchen, the food shop, 
and the handwork shop. A very 
important and valuable contribution 
by the Union to the world's knowl- 
edge of the most intricate and difficult 
of all economic problems is the col- 
lection of a reference library of works 
on women in industry. Of this I shall 
have more to say further on. It is a 
simple, natural, and unpretentious 
activity, but one of many possibilities 
for good. 

The volume of work carried on in the 
various branches, and its total, as 
measured by financial statements and 
reports, is of minor importance. It 
may be of interest, however, to many to 
learn that in the prosecution of their 
work last year the Union handled 
$390,800, of which income $325,075.76 
was created by the Industrial depart- 
ments, the difference being covered 
by voluntary gifts. Something over 
two hundred and sixty-six women were 
definitely aided during the year. The 
mere figures are unimportant, except- 
ing as a proof that the work is carried 
on on a sufficient scale to touch the 

community broadly and give a basis 
for inductive reasoning from results 
achieved and needs discovered. If 
we were to state in a single propo- 
sition the net result of the Union's 
study of the needs of women to-day, 
it would be that the women of to-day 
are in need of special training for a 
larger part in the working world. It 
is the economic problems that are 
most urgent, indeed entirely over- 
shadow other social difficulties in the 
position of women in our twentieth- 
century civilization. Whereas the pur- 
pose of the Union is declared to be 
" to promote theeducational, industrial, 
and social advancement of women," 
educational is interpreted, in the work 
actually done by the Union, to mean 
education for industrial activity, and 
social advancement interpreted to 
mean a higher place in the industrial 

In other words, women are beginning 
to feel keenly the necessity of bearing 
a portion of the cost of an increasingly 
costly civilization, other than that 
which they bear as housewives. This 
is not something that they are seeking, 
but something that they feel to be 
forced upon them. Other movements 
may express the aspirations of women; 
this expresses the grim, the almost 
tragic pressure of necessity. There 
may be individual workers who are 
striving for the economic independence 
of women as an ideal. But, for the 
most part, these women would be quite 
contented if their problem did not 
exist. They are not creating it by 
their own activities, nor voicing a 
restless aspiration of their sex. In 
this respect the work differs materially 
from that of many other philanthropic 
and social movements of our time that 
are expressive of a need that is wholly 
subjective, an aspiration for something 
better. As nearly as can be judged 
from the work done and attempted by 
the Union, as far as their own move- 
ment is concerned, they draw a sigh 
of relief over every woman happily 
married with sufficient support. It 
is the impossibility of this that is the 
urging necessity behind their work. 



p^^nMiji^- "AT mtKKh u 

^F" B 9 


The stress of our civilization is driving 
women to forms of employment to 
which they would not turn but for 
direst need. As a result, the mass of 
women employed, being unskilled, are 
driven into the very lowest forms of 
toil at a wage that not unseldom is 
totally insufficient for the barest 
necessities of life. In spite of this 
ever-present object lesson of hundreds 
of thousands of mentally and physically 
capable women working at the very 
bottom, the feminine instinct is too 
strong to lead girls, during the natural 
period of educational development, to 
seriously consider problems of self- 
support. The work of a befriending 
organization consists in the rectifica- 
tion of a mistake — ■ a thing which can 
only be partially done at best. The 
error is one of prudence and of lack 
of adaptation to actually existing 
present conditions, and the appalling- 
fact is that it is an error not at all 
likely ever to be corrected, for its 
correction involves a violation of 
feminine instincts that are functional 
and fundamental. While, therefore, 
the work of the Union, as conducted, 
is a blessed and beneficent work, it is 
and always must be the sad work of 
repairing a mistake. The larger work, 
the greater work, the more far-reaching 
work exists in the Union only in germ 

in its library and research depart- 
ments and their possibilities in the di- 
rection of a vast publicity work, that 
shall not simply aim at the education 
of women to adapt them to the 
abnormalities of a civilization sadly 
defective, but more directly and power- 
fully at the mistakes in our social 
order, out of which the conditions 
arise or are made possible. What 
the leaders possibly regard as their 
least practical work I believe to be 
their most practical. From the be- 
ginning the organization has been 
feeling its way into its work. It was 
not founded upon a theory. It was 
too broad in spirit to be limited by 
any of its own earlier activities. Step 
by step it has been moving toward a 
goal, never clearly discerned. But 
the evidence accumulates that the 
real need is a knowledge of what the 
need is. 

All right thinking employers are 
baffled in their efforts at anything re- 
sembling a satisfactory solution of the 
problems surrounding the employment 
of women. Only on the lowest plane 
do the conditions approximate those 
governing the employment of men. 

In many cases the wages resemble a 
gratuity. The strict application of 
the law of supply and demand to the 
payment of wages to women would 



result in such a reduction for all forms 
of work above that of day laborers 
as would shock the moral sense of the 
community. Capable girls may be 
obtained for almost any work at al- 
most any price, and in apparently 
limitless numbers. The reasons are 
obvious, and the discussion of the 
subject almost trite. Girls do not 
take their work seriously in the 
majority of cases, regarding it as a 
temporary makeshift. 

These facts throw untold difficulties 
in the way of the systematic education 
of women for industrial employment. 
A skilled woman mechanic is an un- 
known factor in the economic world, 
and in all probability always will be. 

Such an adjustment of social con- 
ditions as will reconsecrate women to 
domestic life is a remote dream. 
Nevertheless, the pressure should be 
in that direction, as it is the employ- 
ment of women in the industrial world, 
under a factory system, will never 
reach a satisfactory basis. It violates 
too many fundamental laws. If the 
work of the Women's Industrial Union 
is to bring about such a satisfactory 
adjustment, the work is hopeless. 
But if it stands as a merciful helper of 
those who feel the worst eifects of the 

lawless conditions prevailing to-day, 
and lends its chief energies toward the 
real comprehension of the problem 
and the education of public senti- 
ment along wholesome lines that ac- 
cordwith natural laws and inevitable 
social instincts, the field is one of the 
highest possibilities for good. In that 
library of works on subjects related to 
women in the economic life and that 
research department is the germ of a 
usefulness for which the world will be 
increasingly grateful. 

The Union announces the election 
of Mrs. Mary Schenck Woolman of the 
Teachers' College, New York, and 
formerly head of the Manhattan 
Trade School, to the office of presi- 
dent. The election would seem to 
prefigure increased emphasis upon the 
industrial education feature of the 
Union's work. Certainly all well- 
wishers of the race desire and hope for 
the greatest success of the incoming 

The New England Magazine 
hopes, in particular, for the broadest 
use of the publicity possibilities of 
Perkins Hall, the development of that 
library, and the advancement of the 
research work in which the Union ha« 
made so promising a beginning. 

The Possibilities of Pinkie 

(Continued from page 366) 
Sarah looked plump and prosperous. 
In another year she would flower into a 
beauty of the gorgeous, Oriental type. 

"Pinkie's no good, Miss Charlotte. 
The boss ain't going to keep her on," 
confided Sarah. And Charlotte saw 
that war was on between the Irish 
wild-cat and the Jewish panther. She 
felt that the latter was the more en- 
during beast. 

It was no surprise to learn when she 
next called in the Avenue that Pinkie 
was out of work. 

"She's taken Ellen to the movin' 
picters," said her mother, mumbling 
and grumbling, half to herself, about 

the money her husband gave the girl. 
"She'd orter be workin' an' helpin* 
him, now, 'stead of racin' the streets." 
Mrs. Driscoll, unusually dirty, sat 
upon the steps. Her elbows rested 
upon her knees and her chin was sunk 
between the palms of her hands. The 
attitude was as suggestive of immobil- 
ity as that of Buddha, but it lacked 
any aspect of repose or peace. Occa- 
sionally the eyelids lifted and a glance, 
half spiteful, half humorous, shot forth. 
Charlotte recognized in the woman's 
untidiness, in her immobility, and in 
the mumbling speech the overcoming 
spell of "sickness." It made her 
more communicative than was her 



wont and accentuated her hatred, which 
she flung forth with a kind of fierce wit. 

"She's all for a good time. Yer 
spilin' 'em up at the House, makin' 'em 
want a good time all the time. 
When's my good time? I don't never 
go out the door. Slavin' for 'em all 
day long." 

"Why don't you go with them, Mrs. 
Driscoll? Where is the dress I gave 

"Too big for me. I gave it to his 

The eyes lifted to see if this shot 
would take effect. Charlotte did 
start with surprise as she glanced 
from the shapeless figure before her 
to her own slim shapeliness. The 
pleasure of having made a hit started 
the muttered monologue again. 

"She'd orter be workin' an' helpin' 
to pay the rint. He's gittin' old. 
He ain't fit to be goin' out in all kin's 
o' weather, ain't fit to work so." 

"Mr. Driscoll isn't old. You don't 
seem old to me, Mrs. Driscoll," said 
Charlotte encouragingly. 

"Me! I ain't old. He's old enough 
to be me father. Orter be glad to get 
a sweet, young thing like me, old man 
like him." 

Fortunately there was no upward 
glance with this, or the uncontrollable 
gleam of amusement that shone on 
Charlotte's face as she looked at the 
"sweet, young thing" might have 
caused resentment. The glazed eyes 
half shut and the woman began to 
mutter to herself, perhaps of memories 
from days when the stretch of the 
imagination needed to picture Mrs. 
Driscoll as a "sweet, young thing" 
would not have been so great. 

As Charlotte turned away she won- 
dered what image of a past self had 
clung in the woman's mind through all 
the years of hard, debasing living, 
wondered if the wild wit and charm 
that were so delightful and so dangerous 
in Pinkie had once made attractive 
her mother. During all those years 
of suffering, when she bore many 
children, when they died as the young 
of homeless animals die and the 
mother seemingly cared no more than 

the beasts for the dead, cared little 
more for the living, — during all those 
years had she been thinking of her- 
self as a "sweet, young thing," with a 
right to a good time; had that dream 
of a good time come at last to mean 
only those hours of drowsy numbness 
or of wild excitement that the dread 
stimulantbrought? The earlier stages of 
Mrs. Driscoll's drunkenness developed 
such flights of fancy and sallies of wit 
that some of her neighbors were ac- 
cused of bringing her liquor to see the 
fun. They disappeared behind closed 
doors when the last, wild fighting 
stage appeared. In this last stage 
she had driven into the settlement 
one of the workers who had tried to 
lead her home, had smashed the glass 
door in her effort to get in herself, and 
then had fallen back upon the stone 
steps. Pinkie, white with rage, loath- 
ing the cause of her shame, loyal and 
loving so her "ma," struggled through 
the mocking crowd, lifted the poor 
bleeding head and held it in her arms, 
until the clanging bell, that drew like a 
magnet idlers from every alley, an- 
nounced the coming of the p-itrol 
wagon to take the poor wretch to a cell 
to sleep off her "good time." When 
old Drsicoll went next morning to ask 
for probation rather than commit- 
ment for the mother of his children, 
did he recall the "sweet, young thing" 
of earlier days? When he refused to 
follow the advice of parish priest and 
social student to send his wife away 
for the sake of the children, was it 
inertia or some spell upon him from 
the dream of old days that made him 
reject their counsel? Who can tell 
the emotional linkings whereby in- 
stinct outweighed reason in his kindly 
stupid brain? 

A great surge of pity for the lost 
hopes and broken images of frail 
humanity swept amusement from the 
mind of Charlotte. She saw a world 
of hopes lost past recovery, of dream- 
selves shattered past all piecing by 
miserable owners, saw the besotted 
clod upon the steps still clinging to the 
fragments of a young girl's dream in 
the shipwreck of her life. 



Pinkie, standing in the sunshine 
at the end of the Avenue, in her white 
graduation dress and flowered hat, not 
yet seriously soiled, seemed the incar- 
nation of that dream. Charlotte won- 
dered if she could pilot the girl past the 
shoals that had shipwrecked her 

"Come to the embankment with 
me. I want to talk with you, Pinkie." 

"Ma's sick again. I couldn't stay 
in the store. I had to take Ellen to 
the hospital. She got a gland in her 
neck. The boss was awful. I won't 
go back if they put me in the basement. 
The air's just awful down there." 

The torrent of excuses began to 
pour in anticipation of Charlotte's 
lecture upon leaving her place. Pink- 
ie's power in making excuses was 
masterful. The little difficulty arising 
from sticking to the truth which in- 
terferes with the form of excuses in 
more exact natures never arose with 
imaginative Pinkie. One of Char- 
lotte's aims in working with the club 
had been to cultivate the virtues of 
truthfulness and honesty in its mem- 
bers, but she had to admit that the 
seeds sown in Pinkie's heart were still 
in the cotyledon stage. 

"What do you wish to do, Pinkie?" 

"Don't want to do nothing this 
summer. Just want to have a good 
time. Say, Miss Charlotte, ain't you 
never goin' to take us to the beach 


Pinkie's tone was that of one who 
calls to account a person for a neg- 
lected duty. The other girls used 
the same note of demand when they 
spoke of past and more-than-suggested 
future good times. In anticipation, 
the picnics had been glorious; in 
realization, pleasure and dissatisfac- 
tion had been equally mixed; in 
retrospect, the pleasure was magnified 
and the dissatisfaction transferred to 
the infrequency of picnics. It was 
spreading this demand for a good time 
as the demand for work on which all 
true satisfaction in life depends would 
never spread. Charlotte wondered if 
Mrs. Driscoll's fuddled brain had 
made a chance but clever hit at the 

danger in present educational tend- 
encies. Good play leads to better 
work. Demoralizing is that play 
which leads only to the desire for more 
play, to mental and physical inertia. 
Was the settlement laying too much 
stress upon amusement, creating an 
appetite that might destroy the power 
to work, or was it simply substituting 
clean and healthy food for the poisons 
offered by cheap shows and dance halls 
to these girls and boys who would 
have their fill of a good time some- 
where, somehow? The course be- 
tween too much and too little was no 
easy one to steer. For the present 
she must seek work, a vocation if that 
might be found, but in any case work 
that would harden the muscles and 
steady the mind of this unambitious, 
happy-go-lucky girl. 

Pondering these things in her mind, 
Charlotte watched the girl as she 
played with little Ellen. The thought 
that suddenly popped into clear con- 
sciousness must have been gathering 
force for some time. Pinkie's mother- 
ing instinct was the most definite 
trait in her as yet amorphous mass of 
personality. She could not pass a 
baby on the street without a peep into 
the carriage and pushing a neighbor's 
baby in a go-cart was her delight, a 
trait that made her popular in the 
Avenue. Perhaps Pinkie, with good 
training, would make a nursemaid. 

"When your mother is well again, 
how would you like to go into the 
country to learn to be a nurse, to take 
care of children, I mean? " 

"I'd jus' love it. But I'd have to 
come home nights." 

"Oh, no. The place is so pretty 
you'll wish to stay there. You could 
come home once a week." 

"I'd want to come home every 

Charlotte thought little of Pinkie's 
objection and joyously went about the 
arrangement necessary to start the 
girl on a really desirable vocation. 
The matron of the infant asylum, a 
kindly woman, who seemed as inter- 
ested in helping young girls as in 
saving the lives of the pitiable babies 



placed in her charge, promised to take 
her in some capacity. The required 
wardrobe, rather a large one consider- 
ing the doubtful nature of the experi- 
ment, was at last purchased and 
prepared. The new clothes, the pros- 
pect of a long trolley ride, a dim but 
glorious vision of a well-paid position 
in an indefinitely near future made the 
girl depart in good spirits. Her mother 
seemed glad to be rid of her. Little 
Ellen wailed loudly, but was soon 
silenced by maternal surety. 

On the way to the asylum, Pinkie's 
doubt of strange places returned. 

"I wisht' I could sleep at home,' , 
she said. 

"Wait until you see the pretty 
rooms at the asylum and the nice 
girls who are your roommates. I'm 
sure you will be happy to stay there." 

Charlotte never doubted that the 
longing for Linden Court would 
vanish in the better surroundings, but 
she began to realize that something 
she did not understand lay back of 
this dread of sleeping away from 
home. Some gruesome idea had be- 
come associated with the thought. 

Miss Benton thought Pinkie too 
young to begin the nurse's training 
immediately, but offered to start her 
upon housework. At this the girl 

"I ain't goin' to wash dishes an' 
scrub. I hate it! I won't stay to do 
that! Miss Charlotte, you said I 
could take care of the babies." She 
turned upon her mentor in a state of 
white wrath such as Charlotte had 
not seen in her since her childhood 

It took all Charlotte's power of per- 
suasion, to which was added the con- 
soling idea of earning some money by 
the housework, to make her decide to 
go through the four probational months 
before entering upon the regular course 
of nurses' training. To the cordial 
greetings of her roommates, Pinkie 
responded coldly; Charlotte's enthu- 
siasm over the pretty room failed 
to warm her doubting frigidity; only 
the sight of the sick babies in the gar- 
den, for whom she could not care, 

brought signs of pleasure. Into Char- 
lotte's satisfaction in finding this up- 
lifting vocation for her charge, doubts 
began to creep. She left Pinkie with 
renewed admonitions in regard to 
behavior and the need to profit by her 
unusual opportunity. Pinkie only 
smiled. So did the matron, who 
Charlotte rejoiced to think under- 
stood girls better than she did. 

In a week's time she went again to 
the asylum, hoping to find Pinkie 
happily settled in her new home. The 
girl who opened the door smiled 
knowingly, as she led her to Miss 
Benton's room. Charlotte wondered 
if Pinkie had been up to pranks of 
which she knew the liveliness from 
club experience. 

"How is your little protegee getting 
on, Miss Merrydew?" asked the 

"That is what I came to ask you, 
Miss Benton." 

"Didn't you know that she left? 
Went the evening of the day you 
brought her. Said she wouldn't sleep 
here, and that you told her she could 


"She is not the kind to make a good 
nurse," continued the matron consol- 
ingly, as she saw Charlotte's dismay. 
"The department store represents about 
the limit for girls of that class. They 
love to stand behind a counter in the 
best they have, look pretty, handle 
pretty things, and gossip in the inter- 
vals of trade. One cannot really 
blame them for following the pleas- 
anter and more immediately profitable 

"But she loves children. I thought 
this would be a much safer and health- 
ier life for her," demurred Charlotte. 

"She cannot see with your eyes nor 
judge with your mind. With her in- 
heritance and training it would hardly 
be possible to look forward eighteen 
months to a good position and good 
pay with even then less chance for the 
gregarious, gossipy life of the shop 
and the quarter." 

"But the department store is dan- 
gerous for a girl as pretty and as wild 
as Pinkie." 



"The danger to some girls is great 
anywhere. Your friendship will help 
her, although she will not always 
follow your advice. She stayed to 
wash the dishes, and as she put up 
the last one she said, with tears in her 
eyes, 'If she was here, I would stay 
anyhow, but she's gone, and I've just 
got to go too.' " 

"Poor child! I suppose she was 
homesick for that hovel at the end of 
Linden Court. I'm disappointed in 
her — more in myself. I am afraid 
I'm a bungler as a vocational guide, 
Miss Benton." 

"You have a somewhat difficult 
charge, Miss Merrydew. Don't judge 
either yourself or her too hastily." 

In the next few weeks Charlotte 
became acquainted with the intricacies 
of the employment bureau in the de- 
partment store. She met with cour- 
tesy and discourtesy, with suave and 
surly officials, with women who were 
respectable and women whose lack of 
respectability was written in every 
glance and every movement. She 
went into stores where all the success- 
ful women workers seemed of the 
latter type, and she found them often 
more attentive and obliging than the 
"sales-ladies" in the store that had 
been "cleaned up." 

In the outer office of one employ- 
ment manager she met an exquisitely 
pretty, well-dressed woman, of charm- 
ing manner, who interested herself in 
Charlotte's quest, until the latter let 
fall the remark: 

"Above all, I would like the girl 
to be in a place that is safe, for she is 
pretty and rather wild." 

The woman kept her eyes upon her 
writing, as she replied: 

"I will attend to the matter as soon 
as I can. Good day." 

Six months later, Charlotte went 
into the same office, this time in the 
cause of a girl already employed in the 
store. She met the same woman, 
prettier than ever, better dressed, more 
gracious in manner, but — what was 
it? — a lurid light might have wrought 

{To he 

such a change. Charlotte pic sen led 
her plea and got away as quickly as 
possible, crying out in her heart, "Oh, 
the pity of it!" Pinkie had never 
received a call from that office. 

At last a place was found in a store 
run upon most advanced principles, a 
store where the needs of employees 
were studied as carefully as the needs 
of customers. The philanthropy of 
the owners of this store was not to be 
doubted, but this same philanthropy 
proved a most valuable advertisement 
in charity-loving Boston. The won- 
der is that so few merchants arise to 
this point of view. 

A few months of work and the girl 
was "bounced," as she expressed it, 
although, a week before, she had as- 
sured Charlotte that she was soon to 
be promoted to selling, and that she 
made all the fun in the place. When 
Charlotte asked the reason for her dis- 
charge from the keen but kindly 
manager, he told her that the girl was 
too sharp, too smart for a bundle-girl, 
but not old enough or sufficiently 
trained to sell goods. 

"If she gets some training in a store 
where they are less particular, per- 
haps we can take her back later," he 

Charlotte carried this hopeful mes- 
sage to Pinkie, who replied: 

"I ain't goin' back there, anyhow, 
Miss Charlotte. It's too high-toned 
for me. I ain't up to it." 

Charlotte saw that she had again 
slipped up in her psychology and over- 
estimated Pinkie's possibilities. 

The next place, that of cashier in a 
cheap restaurant, Pinkie found for 
herself. One great advantage in this 
place was plenty of food, which caused 
Pinkie to live up to her nickname, as 
she had not since early childhood. 
(She had been christened Cecelia 
Ann. "For his mother an' his sister," 
said Mrs. Driscoll, "an' it's not me- 
self will be callin' her them names.") 
Seen through the gilded bars of her 
cashier's desk, she suggested a rose 
behind a garden paling. 

Church and Monument, Lexington Common 

77i£ Custom House, Salem 

IN our September issue appeared 
a group of interesting drawings 
of old New England harbors, 
by Louis H. Ruyl, and credited 
to Little, Brown & Co. as a portion 
of the illustration of a book on "His- 
toric Summer Haunts" from Newport 
to Portland, the text of which is 
from the pen of F. Lauriston Bullard. 
The book itself is now in hand, and 
at the same time that we are present- 
ing another group of these drawings, 
we can bear witness to the skill with 
which the entire work has been done. 
It is a credit alike to author, artist, 
and publisher. 

Mr. Bullard, through his intimate 
knowledge of New England traditions 
and his acquaintance with the best 
of its poetry and fiction, is qualified 

to select the features most salient and 
attractive, so that the book may be 
regarded as a collection of illustrated 
essays, as a guide, and as a reference 
book distinguished by literary merit. 
Mr. Ruyl has sketched these familiar 
haunts again and again. Their mutual 
love for the beautiful, the picturesque, 
and the historic has resulted in a 
collaboration harmonious in spirit and 
expression, so that "Historic Summer 
Haunts" becomes a collection of 
fascinating words and printed pictures 
strongly appealing to those interested 
in any phase of New England life and 

This work promises to be one of the 
most deservedly popular holiday gift 
books of the season. 


The Guardian* 




She felt her resolution fading. No 
one could remain angry very long at a 
time with 'Gene. And she — least 
of all. The mere fact that he wanted 
to care for her, whether she needed it 
or not, was enough to melt a mood 
which at best had been forced. Even 
walking along here by his side, seeing 
him tower so high above her shoulders, 
gave her a sense of protection that was 
sheer joy to her. 

"What 'bout that other job?" she 

"Ryan told me 'bout it. He sleeps 
at the same house. Said there'd be a 
chance for a deck hand 'fore long." 

"How much?" 

"Ten a week," he answered eagerly. 

"You'd better take it," she an- 

"An' ye'll let me pay you back outer 

"Guess I can run me own car," she 

She did not say it with much spirit. 
She waited a little breathless to see 
what he would say next. As a matter 
of fact, her position was not so com- 
fortable as it might be. She was 
living with a married sister, and their 
relations had been somewhat strained 
lately. In some way the latter had 
discovered her interest in this unknown 
man and had talked in so direct and 
brutal a fashion about it that Bella 
found it no longer comfortable to live 
on at home. She had already re- 
solved to take the few dollars she had 
saved and secure a room in the city. 
Now that she had lost her job she was 
more than ever resolved to do this, 
though it made it all the harder. 

They had reached the ferry. She 
378 * Begun in the February number. 

did not wish to go home with things 
still in the air. 

"Let's go down to the park," she 

The park lay along the water front 
a few minutes' walk to the left. With 
a smile which she did not see, he 
agreed. All he needed to escape from 
his troubled conscience was this evi- 
dence of relenting on her part. He 
took her arm. The act brought the 
blood to her face, but she did not resent 
it. With great solicitude he guided 
her through the crowd and to one of 
the green benches facing the ocean. 
The air was warm and dry. She sank 
down with a sigh and he seated himself 
near her. 

"Seems good to get a breath of 
fresh air," he said. 

She took off her hat and placing it in 
her lap smoothed back the hair from 
her eyes. 

"Yes," she said, "it does. An' I 
dunno what you guys that's borned 
where it grows ever quits it for." 

He started. He had told her little 
about his past. He had said merely 
that, he came from up Maine way. He 
didn't like to talk about that past with 
her. He always swerved away from 

"I dunno," he answered lightly; 
"a feller needs suthin' more 'n air." 

'"Gene," she said earnestly, "take 
it from me — you made the mistake 
of your life when you gut that hunch." 

"I dunno," he answered vaguely. 

What she said next she said with an 
effort. She had had it in her mind for 
a week. She had said it to him a hun- 
dred times in her dreams, but it was 
a more difficult thing actually to put 
into words. But now with a quick 
intake of breath she forced herself to it. 

" 'Gene," she began. 

Copyright, 1912, Small, Maynard & Co. 



"Yes, Bella." 

"If I stakes you to th' ticket, will 
you beat it back?" 


He was looking at her in wonder. 
He was leaning a little towards her 
with that smile about his lips which 
seemed somehow to remove from his 
shoulders all the responsibility which 
falls upon most men. 

"Back to th' old farm," she an- 
swered with a wan smile. "Back to 
the hayseed. Back — outer all this." 

When she dared look up at him, her 
eyes were very tender. He ventured 
to take her hand. She allowed it so 
for a second and then withdrew it. 

"None o' that," she warned in a 
voice that was not natural. For one 
thing it trembled; for another it was 
raised hardly above a whisper. 

"What d' you say, 'Gene?" she 
asked, returning to her original pro- 

"That I've got to get even with you 
anyhow before I go back," he answered. 

She knew what she should have done; 
she should have laughed in his face; 
she should have made him believe 
that his going made absolutely no 
difference to her. She knew well how 
it should be done and knew further- 
more how to do it. Yet she only 
raised her head a little higher and 
through half-closed eyes dreamily lis- 
tened to the waves as they crawled 
up the gray sand. She knew that his 
arm was stealing with apparent aim- 
lessness but in reality with deliberate 
design along the back of the seat. 
She shivered as she finally felt the 
pressure of it against her own tired 
shoulders. She had never before al- 
lowed any one such a liberty. The 
reason she did not now protest was 
perhaps that she did not interpret any 
act of his as a liberty. From the first 
the hard cynical attitude which her 
bitter observation of men had culti- 
vated dropped before the clear eyes of 
'Gene. The fact that he came from 
the hill country disarmed her. The 
further fact that he revealed neither 
in speech nor in thought the bemired 
conception of her sex which she heard 

from every other source allowed her 
the belief of relaxing somewhat in her 
relations with him. 

"Bella," he was saying, "you've 
ben mighty good to me and now I 
want to do for you a little. I wouldn't 
try to get another job if I was you. 
I'll be earnin' 'nuff for both of us 
pretty soon." 

Ordinarily she would have sprung 
to her feet at such a speech. Now 
she only leaned a little more heavily 
against his side. 

"You haven't even gut your job 
yet," she answered. 

"I'll get it all right," he answered 
confidently. "Why don't ye come 
over here in the city an' live?" 

"I was thinkin' of it," she answered. 

"You might get a room at the same 
house I'm boarding at," he suggested. 

She met his eyes at that. She 
looked into them very earnestly. 

"'Gene," she said, "are you goin' 
to play fair with me?" 

"Play fair? What d' ye mean?" 

With her eyes still upon his, she 

"You know what I mean." 

As a matter of fact, he didn't. He 
was even cleaner in his thoughts than 
in her most idealistic moments she 
gave him credit for. Still, because he 
didn't wish to appear altogether green, 
he answered as though he understood 
her fully: 

"O' course I am, Bella." 

With a sigh of relief she allowed 
herself to settle more comfortably 
against his firm shoulders. 

"All right," she said, "then I'll 


Two in a Garret 

THE next day Bella found herself 
installed on the top floor of 
the boarding-house in a room 
next 'Gene's. It wasn't much 
of a room, but there was a roof to keep 
off the rain and a bed to sleep in, and 
those, after all, are the essentials. 
Her household goods she had brought 



over in a dress-suit case. They con- 
sisted solely of a very limited ward- 
robe. With a thrift based upon an 
early resolution never to be forced 
into a position of dependence upon 
any male, she had saved out of her 
earnings whatever she had not been 
obliged to contribute to her sister's 
household instead of spending the 
surplus upon either clothes or enter- 
tainment. The result had been a 
lonely life which had further strength- 
ened her cynicism, but it gave her 
the opportunity for taking her present 
independent stand. 

Bella had no intention of loafing on 
here indefinitely. She had two dis- 
tinct ideas in accepting 'Gene's sug- 
gestion: one was to be near enough to 
watch over him until he was well es- 
tablished on his feet, and the other was 
to rest for a week. She had never 
been able to shake off the feeling which 
had come over her that first night she 
met him — that she was in some way 
responsible for this big overgrown 
boy. He was her charge. She knew 
the world and he didn't, and because 
he had come to her clean and un- 
spotted she must keep him so. She 
didn't put this into words. It was not 
a deliberate, well-informed plan on 
her part, but it was a feeling strong 
enough to govern her acts. It sprang, 
as did her aggressive attitude towards 
all the other men she had ever met, 
from a mother instinct that was 
strangely pure and vital. 

Her desire for a vacation of a week 
was sufficiently novel to have set her 
to thinking if ever she had been in the 
habit of thinking about herself. This 
desire had come to her while she was 
sitting in the park by the side of 'Gene. 
There was something in the pressure 
of his strong arm that had suddenly 
made her wish to play the stay-at-home 
for a few days. She had been tired 
all her life. She had taken it for 
granted that being tired was one of the 
necessary burdens of her sex. She had 
never resented it nor disputed it. 
But that evening he had made her 
wonder how it would feel not to go to 
work some morning. He had made 

her curious as to how it would feel to 
be half cared for just for a little while. 
She would pay for her own room, but 
she would enjoy the luxury of allowing 
him to contribute towards the meals. 
She could get his breakfast for him 
and wait for him at night. It is 
doubtful if she would have gone even 
this far had he not really owed her the 
money. This permitted her to play 
the dependent without actually being 
so. Any moment she did not like the 
experiment she could give it up. 

But the significant point remained 
that no other man had ever bred in her 
such an unusual desire. However 
much she might compromise with her- 
self, however tight she closed her eyes 
to the naked truth, enough of it leaked 
through to make her somewhat self- 
conscious. She found herself uneasily 
happy. Her thoughts were centering 
more and more around this man. She 
took the episode in the park for what 
it was worth. That 'Gene should 
want to put his arm about her didn't 
mean much — men were all that 
way — but that she had been willing 
to allow it meant a good deal. It 
was queer, too, that she didn't mind 
losing her job and that she could so 
easily leave her sister's home. She 
didn't try to explain those facts 
through 'Gene's attitude towards her 
so much as she did through her atti- 
tude towards him. With a careless 
smile she finally disposed of the whole 
matter as being merely a develop- 
ment of that peculiar feeling of re- 
sponsibility for him which she had 
felt from the beginning. 

For a wonder 'Gene actually secured 
the job he had mentioned to her. He 
was to be a sort of deck hand on the 
ferry and was to start work the next 
morning. He reported the news to 
her with a great deal of self-satisfied 

"Ye see!" he boasted. 

"Fine," she nodded. 

Then she told him her scheme about 
the breakfasts. 

"No use spendin' good money at a 
hash house when we can knock some- 
thin' together for half the price." 



He accepted her suggestion gra- 

"Any-thin' but ham an' eggs," he 
agreed. "I'd starve before I'd eat 
any more o' those." 

She laughed. 

"Don't blame you for slippin' yer 
trolley on that. We'll dope out some- 
thin' else." 

That day they went marketing to- 
gether. She bought a small kerosene 
stove, a bottle of kerosene, a few cheap 
dishes and knives and forks at a ten- 
cent store, some coffee and butter and 
bread, some sugar, a can of pressed 
beef, a pound of cheese and some 
doughnuts — the latter at his sug- 
gestion. They were like two happy 
children as they came back with their 
arms loaded. The landlady looked 
somewhat askance at these prepara- 
tions, but her interest ceased with a 
significant leer. She was not one 
to look too closely into the relations of 
her boarders at a time when she had 
half a dozen vacant rooms on her 
hands. Furthermore she could not 
help admiring 'Gene herself. It was 
long since she had seen so fine a 
figure of a man. 

'Gene had to report for work at five, 
which meant that Bella was forced to 
rise ar half-past three. When her 
alarm clock rang her up at this time 
next morning, she found herself for a 
moment staring into the dark with an 
odd feeling of excitement which at first 
she could not interpret. Then she re- 
membered the big man in the next 
room. She scrambled out of bed and 
hastily dressed. She went to his door 
and knocked softly. He was sleeping 
so soundly that he did not awake at 
once. She whispered through the 

" 'Gene, 'Gene." 

"What's the matter? Who is it?" 
he called back. 

"It's Bella," she answered. "Time 
to get up." 

"All right," he answered sleepily. 

She hurried to her room, hastily 
made up her bed, put away her things, 
and placed the coffee-pot on the kero- 
sene stove. She spread a pillow case 

over the small table and set the two 
plates on opposite sides, with a knife, 
fork, and spoon by each. She found 
herself rather excited over the task. 
From time to time she stopped to 
glance in the dirty mirror and rearrange 
her hair. Her cheeks had more color 
than usual. She opened the tin of 
meat and placed this midway between 
the two plates and then cut off a slice 
of bread for each of them. Then 
came the cups; she had almost forgot- 
ten the cups. She rinsed them out in 
the water pitcher and gave him the one 
which was not nicked. By the time 
the water was boiling she was singing 
to herself. 

'Gene came in heavy-eyed and still 

"Seems like midnight," he com- 

"I don't mind," she answered. 

There was some daylight in the 
room, but she kept the small kerosene 
lamp burning on the bureau. 'Gene 
sat down in the only chair, while she 
sat on the bed. She liked the matter- 
of-fact way he accepted things. It 
made her feel as though she had been 
getting breakfast for him a long time. 
It gave her the comfort of a past. She 
poured out his coffee for him. 

"Sugar?" she asked. 


"How much?" 

" Four spoonfuls," he answered with 
a yawn. 

She gave him four heaping spoonfuls 
and, watching him stir it, forgot to 
pour her own coffee. 

"Ain't ye goneter eat nothin', 

"Sure," she answered with a blush, 
"betcher life." 

He himself ate heartily. As he 
drank his coffee, he awakened. 

"This knocks the stufiin' outern 
the Elite," he complimented her. 

"Ain't so worse, is it?" she asked 

" Sh'd say not," he replied. " How's 
it seem not to have to get up and go 
t' work?" 

"Fine!" she answered. 



"You hadn't oughter work nohow," 
he put in. "You're too small. " 

"I didn't useter mind it," she 

She had been watching his cup, and 
the moment it was empty she inquired: 

" 'Nother on the coffee?" 

He handed over his cup and watched 
as she poured it carefully so as not to 
stir up the grounds. It certainly gave 
him a warm glow of satisfaction to be 
sitting here with her to wait on him. 
It made him feel at home. It took 
off the curse of the city. It gave him 
a fixed point — something to come 
back to. Like every one with vaga- 
bond instincts, he had really a keener 
appreciation of home than many of 
those who never wander. He was no 
mere gypsy. He relished the sense 
of stability which comes of having a 
secure line of retreat. But this was 
something even better. He felt the 
pride of being the sole head of the 
establishment. In every glance, every 
movement, every word of Bella's 
he saw her acknowledgment of him 
as master. He didn't try to get any 
deeper into her emotions than this. 
He was content to let the matter rest 
there, basing it simply on the fact that 
she was a mere woman and he a man. 

"What you goin' to do to-day?" 
he asked. 

It pleased her to have him show this 
interest. But it raised a new ques- 
tion. What in the world was she 
going to do ? She saw nothng to do but 
to wait for him to come back from work. 

"I dunno," she answered vaguely. 
"Maybe I'll sit in the park awhile." 
"Good idee," he nodded. "Ye 
oughter get the air." 

"What time'll you be home?" she 

" 'Bout six, I s'pose." 

She cut several slices of bread and 
began to butter them for his lunch. 

"You'll come straight home?" she 
asked without looking up. 

"You bet," he answered. "This 
makes a feller want to come home." 

She bent lower over her task. She 
placed thin slices of beef between the 
bread. Then she took an empty bottle 

and filled it with cold coffee, adding a 
generous supply of sugar. He pushed 
back his chair and rose. She did his 
lunch up in a newspaper and handed it 
to him. He took them without a word. 

"Maybe you won't like these," she 
said in an artful attempt to draw some 
word of praise from him. 

"Why not?" 

"I dunno. Maybe — Oh, I guess 
I'm talkin' foolish," she broke off, 
as she turned back to pick up the 
things on the table preparatory to 
washing them. 

"Bella," he said, his eyes grown 
suddenly brilliant, "I like ev'rything 
ye do." 

"So?" she answered carelessly. 


"You'd better beat it now," she cut 
in, putting the table between them. 
She was afraid of his eyes, afraid of 
the smile which accompanied that 
look. Her instincts were highly de- 
veloped about certain matters. So 
far he had conducted himself as well as 
she could ask. Now — well, she didn't 
blame him. He was a man, after all. 
And, after all, she was a woman. She 
wasn't afraid of herself, only she didn't 
like the idea of having to check him 
in anything. 

"Run 'long 'bout your errands, 
'Gene," she said lightly. 

"Aren't ye goin' t' say good-by?" 

"Good-by," she answered. 

He reached across the table and 
caught her arm. She dropped a cup 
and raised her eyes to his. 

"Let me kiss ye good-by," he 
pleaded earnestly. 

It was difficult to resist the tender 
smile which accompanied the plea. 
After all, she could kiss him a good 
deal as she might kiss a boy. After 
all — She tried to free herself. He 
held her firmly. She felt a lump in 
her throat. Her eyes filled. 

" 'Gene," she said quietly, "didn't 
you say you'd play me fair?" 

He dropped her hand and went out. 
He was neither hurt nor angry. He 
was honestly half ashamed of himself. 
But as he went down the street he 
began ot whistle. 




A Sailor's Lass 

LIFE on the ocean wave, even 
though the waves in question 
consisted only of the choppy 
breakers within the harbor, 
agreed with 'Gene. He grew tanned 
and hardy. The brisk salt air kept 
him cool even through the heat of the 
summer, and whetted his appetite to 
a degree that made serious inroads 
into his wages. So far as work of any 
kind was pleasant to him, this was. 
He considered himself now a genuine 
seafaring man, and resumed his swag- 
gering gait. For a day or two the 
newness of it all sent his thoughts back 
to Julie. He recalled the great ad- 
venture upon which he had originally 
started. She was part of that; in 
fact, the very soul of it. It was she 
who unconsciously had inspired the 
undertaking. When he had been 
turned aside from it, he had been 
turned aside from her. She hadn't 
figured at all in his new life. He had 
forgotten completely even the episode 
of the parting and his hotly spoken 
words to her. When now he did 
remember, it was only with a smile. 
She was an incident in a youthful 
dream. He had seen something of 
life since then. She no more fitted 
into the events centering around the 
Elite than Nat did. 

But as he recovered his spirits, and 
while the wallowing old ferry-boat 
was new enough to separate him from 
the city streets, he dreamed his pleas- 
ant dream over again. For a day or 
two he returned to his room at night 
somewhat abstracted and not his 
genial self. He was curt with Bella, 
and more often than not went to bed 
directly after supper. The salt breezes, 
with their whispering reminder of 
what was to have been, forced a com- 
parison not altogether favorable 
either to his stuffy room or to her who 
was always waiting for him. The 
latter, after her kind, took all the 
blame upon herself. She felt she had 
been unnecessarily severe with him; 

that perhaps the strain of feeling he 
had her to look out for was too much 
for him; that perhaps the humble 
cooking did not agree with him. She 
was upon the point of suggesting that, 
after all, perhaps it would be better 
if she moved somewhere else, when his 
mood broke. 'Gene was not one to 
brood long over anything. Once the 
novelty of the nautical atnosphere 
wore away and he settled down to the 
sordid duty of holding his job, little 
romance remained. As that vanished, 
Julie vanished with it. He found 
more of interest in this woman of 
flesh and blood who awakened him 
every morning and smiled her good- 
night to him just before he tumbled 
into bed, than in the purely gossamer 
creature who beckoned him on to a 
land growing fainter with every pass- 
ing day. 

From this point 'Gene developed a 
good deal of satisfaction with his posi- 
tion. When he came home at the end 
of the first week with his ten dollars 
and handed over five of this to Bella 
for current expenses, he felt a real 
pleasure in thus repaying her initial 
kindness to him. 

"Thet makes us square far as money 
goes, don't it?" he asked. 

"Yes, 'Gene," she answered. 

She waited to see if he had anything 
further to suggest. Apparently he 
didn't have. At present he was too 
well content with the way life was 
going to desire a change of any sort. 
But she herself was not quite content. 
The moment he canceled the debt she 
sensed a difference in their relation. 
She felt it in him and felt it within 
herself. Up to that point the mone- 
tary consideration furnished the slight 
excuse necessary to justify the co- 
operative arrangement. After that 
was done away with, it left him in the 
position of practically supporting her, 
though she still paid for her own room. 
She let matters run on so for another 
week. She was too happy to act at 
once. She lived each day for the joy 
of preparing his breakfast in the morn- 
ing, of having his dinner ready for him 
at night. Had it been possible, she 



would have asked nothing more than 
the satisfaction of doing this indefi- 
nite!}-. She received her reward in 
watching him grow stronger and 
hardier than ever, in seeing his eyes 
respond to the solid comfort she fur- 
nished him in their little mock home, 
in the occasional smile he bestowed on 
her and which sent the blood to her 
cheeks as though she were nothing 
but a very young girl. And yet she 
realized all the while that this must 
end. She knew it must end soon 
when he returned one night and, 
stepping up to her in as matter-of-fact 
a fashion as though they were man 
and wife, kissed her on the lips. She 
knew it when she accepted that kiss 
without protest, and went on about her 
work with her head swimming in 
delirious joy. 

That night after he had gone she 
sat on the edge of her bed and fought 
it out with herself. She realized now 
what her coming here had meant. 
She loved him. At first she repeated 
the words to herself scornfully. She 
who knew men, she who had watched 
with calm cynicism every coarse side 
of their nature, had surrendered in the 
end as meekly as any lass fresh from a 
convent. Putting the matter to her- 
self in this bald fashion, she hated 
herself. She pressed her clenched fists 
into her temples with hysterical pas- 
sion. She spared herself nothing until 
— she recalled how he had smiled into 
her eyes as he left. Then she sat there 
quite helpless. 

He had been good to her. Except 
for that kiss — that single kiss — he 
had played fair with her. He had 
spoken no word of love to her — ■ had 
not enticed her on. She had come 
this far willingly enough — -of her own 
free will. He had given her the joy of 
these last two weeks and asked nothing 
in return. He was only a big care-free 
boy and she — a little fool. If she 
wanted to love him, whose business 
was it anyhow? What was the harm 
in that? She. ought to have known 
what she was getting into. She did 
know it — knew it from the first. She 
had gone ahead and deliberately closed 

her eyes to the truth. Now she must 
pay for it; that was all. She had better 
be a good sport than sit there bawling 
like a quitter. 

She undressed and crawled into bed. 
She felt safer and more comfortable 
there in the dark. She knew it was 
absurd to imagine that a man like 
'Gene should think of marrying such 
a little scrawny pale-faced thing as she. 
Still there was no harm dreaming 
about it. Supposing he really did 
want to marry her — that he came and 
said, "Bella, let's tie up." Why, then 
they would get a tenement somewhere. 
They could buy a little furniture on 
the instalment plan. — they wouldn't 
need much. With a real kitchen she 
would show him what cooking was. 
There were a lot of things she could 
make which she knew he would like. 
She would try to make doughnuts like 
those he was always talking about, and 
might even with a little practice do an 
apple pie. She would spend all day 
just cooking the things he liked. It 
did not matter in the dark whether her 
cheeks took on color or not. She let 
herself go. It was rather too bad, 
however, that a mirror could not have 
shown her how much younger these 
thoughts made her. 

She would try to persuade him to 
save his money too. In time he might 
be promoted on the ferry-boat. He 
might even be made captain. He de- 
served to be. She had often jollied 
Captain Regan on her morning trip 
to the cafe, and he wasn't half the 
man that 'Gene was. 

Then in time — ■ she whispered this 
thought to herself — in time there 
might be a kiddy. There might be a 
little kiddy who looked like 'Gene. 
He might have sandy hair and blue 
eyes ■ — a little warm round ball of 
sandy hair and blue eyes. He would 
put his arms around her neck and call 
her "Modder." She was panting. 
She heard the quick intake of her own 
breath. She rolled over and buried 
her face in the pillow. 

"Oh, my Gawd!" she moaned. 
"Oh, my Gawd!" 

(To be continued) 

Helping New England Grow 





NEARLY two million dollars in 
new industries brought into 
New England in little more 
than a year! This achieve- 
ment represents the net result of one 
phase of the efforts made by a 
new agency organized to do just 
that sort of thing. The agency bears 
this name, "The New England Lines 
Industrial Bureau." It is one of the 
first fruits of the management of the 
New York, New Haven & Hartford 
Railroad, the Boston & Maine Rail- 
road, and the Maine Central Railroad 
in common. 

We have had endless talk about 
"building up New England," and all 
that sort of thing. A good deal has 
been said about "booming" and 
"boosting" and "hustling" — words 
hardly yet domesticated in the New 
England vocabulary except with refer- 
ence to doings west of the Mississippi. 
If you go to any leading industrial 
center in New England, — say Spring- 
field, Pittsfield, Worcester, Nashua, 
New Bedford, Fitchburg, Waterbury, 
Lynn, Brockton, Bangor, — you will 
find just as much movement, activity, 
enterprise, new development, as in 
a corresponding place fifteen hun- 
dred miles or more to the west- 

ward. But there will be much less 
commotion about it all. When a new 
region is to be filled up it is the natural 
thing to do everything possible to 
attract attention, so that all the world 
may know it is on the map and ready 
for business. 

Hereabouts it is different. New Eng- 
land seems pretty well built up and 
pretty well filled up. Nearly every- 
where they have their hands full doing 
things. And they are so wonted to 
doing things and making no fuss about 
it that they have not considered it 
necessary to tell all the world of it. 
Possibly this makes for undue con- 
servatism. But every old community 
tends that way. The real story gets 
told, however, by the tremendous 
volume of finished products that flows 
out over the country from the fountain- 
head of New England mills and work- 
shops; by the endless chain of freight 
cars and steamships loaded at our 
busy terminals. 

New England More Than Holding 
Her Own 

New England has thus been keeping 
her end up. In rival sections consid- 
erable has been said from time to time 
about "putting it over New England. " 





Now and then there has been some 
little nervousness at home about it, 
as when the South some time ago began 
its cotton mill movement, and not a 
few became fearful for the future of 
Fall River, Lowell, Lawrence, and 
Manchester. Cotton spinning in the 
South did grow tremendously. But 
Fall River continued to grow as never 
before, and all the other places kept 
on flourishing; New Bedford jumped 
ahead phenomenally. 

That is the way it has been all 
round; nearly all the old industries 
have continued to grow, and a lot of 
new ones more than took the places of 
those that subsided or went away. 
When the General Electric took up 
headquarters at Schenectady it was 
thought in Lynn that it meant the be- 
ginning of the end for the industry 
there. But not only have the com- 
pany's Lynn works been growing 
at a pace surpassing even that of 
Schenectady, the large plant acquired 
at Pittsfield by the same interest had 
its development enormously acceler- 
ated; other important plants were es- 
tablished at Everett, East Boston, 
South Boston, and elsewhere. In the 
same way, when one big New England 
railroad got control of another big 
New England railroad dire predictions 
were made, but it turned out that it 
meant new and unprecedented develop- 
ment for the acquired road. 

In fact, New England has been one 
of the busiest, most industrious, and 
most prosperous sections of North 
America ever since the early colonial 
days. There have been changes and 
transformations; from time to time 
certain interests have declined, certain 
industries have languished; in New 
England, as elsewhere, change has 
been the order of the day. But no 
sooner has one thing gone than some- 
thing else, usually bigger and better, 
has come. People have been going 
West ever since a company of Pil- 
grims discovered the wonderful fer- 
tility of the Connecticut valley; a 
bunch of sturdy folk went from the 
Bay Colony into what is now central 
and western New York, and made it 

part of Massachusetts, just as they 
went to Maine, where all the oppor- 
tunities for "opening up" have even 
now not yet been seized. Then the 
children of Puritans and Pilgrims went 
to Ohio and founded a new New Eng- 
land in the Western Reserve; they went 
to Illinois and Wisconsin and Iowa 
and Kansas and Nebraska, and to 
about every other part of the great 
West. So a lot of the best blood of 
New England departed and supplied, 
perhaps, the greater part of the brains 
and the energy and the other where- 
withal to make the American people 
great and powerful. But a lot of the 
best blood stayed behind and is still 
on the ground and on the job, contin- 
uing to leaven and to New Englandize 
the good red blood of the immigrant 
masses that steadily poured in from 
the Old World and more than made 
good for everything that went away. 

Always Fertile and Productive 

For a couple of centuries there has 
been talk about "sterile New Eng- 
land" and its "barren soil." But 
down on Cape Cod, where the natives 
were reputed to wear self-bailing 
shoes (holes in the heels of them to let 
the sand run out), they used to export 
corn to the West Indies. The soil 
was very light, to be sure. But with 
a pogy in each hill, together with 
plenty of seaweed, which made a 
cornfield look like the scattered rem- 
nants of a beach, they got the ni- 
trates, the phosphates and the potash 
that assured them good crops. The 
situation changed; the possibilities of 
the cranberry made out of the native 
Cape Codder one of the most expert 
horticultural specialists that the world 
ever saw. So the old-time corn exports 
of the Cape were not a circumstance 
compared with what the cranberry 
crop now brings in every year. 

With all New England's industrial 
eminence it seems difficult to think of 
Cape Cod as figuring in manufactures. 
Yet sixty years ago or so, #2,000,000 
were invested in a single industry 
there. That one industry was created 
to serve another big local industry, 



the curing of fish. Two million dollars 
went into the salt works on the Cape; 
they represented a patented process 
of native invention for utilizing the 
raw material furnished by the sea at 
their doors and yielding various by- 
products of value. The salt works 
have vanished with the rose of yester- 
day. But the big car works that have 
made a young city out of the Cape 
Cod village of Sagamore represent a 
capital equivalent to that of all the 
salt works which in those days were 
scattered along shore the whole length 
of the Cape. 

Southeastern Massachusetts was the 
first seat of the iron industry in New 
England; it was a great center for it 
till after the Civil War. Large nail 
works and tack works are still running 
as of yore in the heart of Plymouth 
County's pine woods; the famous old 
Bridgewater Ironworks are still active. 
A new aspect of the structural phase 
of the industry in that section is the 
greatest plant in the country for build- 
ing steel ships, the Fore River works 
at Quincy Point — not so very far 
from Hanover, where they forged the 
anchors and chain cables for the his- 
toric "Constitution." 

Transportation Needs and 

So New England, from one end to 
the other, has been well able to take 
care of herself and keep bravely on the 
march that means continued growth 
and prosperity. Transportation facili- 
ties have assured this; industry, in the 
modern sense, is the offspring of 
transportation. Without adequate 
transportation there could never have 
been the great industrial development 
that has made New England what it is 
and kept her steadily advancing. 

Industrious and prosperous as New 
England long has been, it possesses un- 
worked veins of welath-yielding re- 
sources that its own people have hardly 
been conscious of. The guiding spirit 
in New England transportation used 
to be, until very lately, to plod com- 
fortably along performing fair service, 
but without extra exertion. The new 

spirit appreciates the splendid possi- 
bilities that could not fail to respond 
to improved facilities. President Mel- 
len of the New York, New Haven & 
Hartford is now president of the 
Boston & Maine and of the Maine 
Central. He is now following up his 
expenditures of $125,000,000 or more, 
devoted to converting the New Haven 
into an efficient instrument of trans- 
portation, with commensurate outlays 
for rehabilitating the railroad system 
of northern New England. 

More than $20,000,000 has already 
been expended upon physical im- 
provements for the Boston & Maine: 
better roadbed, stronger bridges, heav- 
ier rails, reducing grades, straightening 
out curves, eliminating grade crossings, 
purchasing new equipment. All these 
expenditures make it possible to con- 
duct business more economically and 
efficiently — all to the greater con- 
venience and comfort of shippers and 
of passengers as well as to the operating 
and financial advantage of the railroad 
itself. For instance, nearly twenty- 
five per cent of all the passenger 
coaches and about seventeen per cent 
of all the locomotives now in service 
are new. When the new management 
came into control of the Boston & 
Maine it was charged that its inten- 
tion was to let the property alone, do 
nothing to improve it, and simply 
enjoy the profits that came in. 

In fact, however, the consequences of 
these large expenditures upon the Bos- 
ton & Maine are turning out precisely 
as with the New Haven. They are 
making it possible to operate so much 
more economically than before, and to 
perform so much better service, that 
longer and heavier trains now do the 
work and find no difficulty in more 
than meeting the charges upon the new 
capital. A larger proportion of the 
earnings now goes back into the prop- 
erty than ever before — being charged 
to operating expenses — and the cost 
of conducting business is correspond- 
ingly reduced. As soon as the im- 
provements upon the New Haven 
began to be effective the economy 
resulting was so great that gains in 



gross earnings were also substantially 
all "net." The same now holds true 
for the Boston & Maine. The mid- 
summer earnings of 1912 indicated 
a monthly gain in daily receipts of 
about $11,000 a day over the corre- 
sponding period of 1911. And practi- 
cally all the increase in gross was a 
gain for net. In fact, while the year 
before there was a serious deficit, 
under the new policy of betterment 
the railroad is already more than 
earning its dividends. 

Advantages of a Single Railroad 

It is evident that the advantages 
from unified control, now so apparent 
to the unprejudiced observer, would 
be greatly increased could the two 
companies be brought into still closer 
relation. So long as the two cor- 
porations are kept separate the distinct 
interests of each have to be considered 
in every transaction that mutually con- 
cerns them — their distinct in prefer- 
ence to their common interests. The 
interest of patrons, however, is in- 
variably the latter. In the conduct, of 
business under present conditions prime 
regard must be had for the revenues 
of each separate corporation with its 
separate set of stockholders. For 
instance, if the two corporations were 
unified, traffic from one point to an- 
other would be sent by the most 
direct, convenient, and expeditious 
route without regaTd to anything 
else. But under existing circum- 
stances in determining such traffic 
routes care has to be taken not to de- 
prive one of the two companies of a 
commensurate share of the receipts 
from the shipments thus forwarded. 
With the properties themselves unified, 
as well as the management, no such 
consideration would obtain. 

Another benefit to the public from 
corporate unification would come with 
the elimination of junction points at 
which traffic would pass from one 
jurisdiction to another, with conse- 
quent delays and other complications 
that would disappear under more 

natural and economical conditions. 
The internal traffic of New England 
would thus be greatly benefited. In 
external relations New England inter- 
ests would likewise benefit. Where 
New England transportation is con- 
ducted by separate corporations out- 
side railroads cannot be dealt with 
so advantageously as when local 
conditions are handled by one au- 
thority with reference to such relations. 
Whatever abuses from monopoly 
might have been feared in times past 
there can be no danger of such abuses 
when monopoly is kept in check and 
correspondingly on its good behavior 
under the strong governmental control 
that the State now has the power 
and the inclination to exert. It follows 
that under a strong unified system, 
administered with enlightened regard 
to the promotion of its own interests, 
the general industrial development of 
New England would be correspondingly 

What a Railroad Industrial 
Bureau Is 

All this explains the significance of 
the New England Lines Industrial 
Bureau, instituted not because New 
England was either backward or was 
not going forward very handsomely, 
but because when transportation 
facilities are made enormously better 
than they have been they can make 
New England go ahead a great deal 
more handsomely yet, and in so doing 
create new traffic that will yield 
ample returns upon the capital em- 
ployed to serve it. It was estab- 
lished to point out the way to take 
advantage of these possibilities; to 
show what and where and how to 
bring capitalist and manufacturer into 
contact with their opportunities, and 
lead the men that know how to make 
two blades of grass grow where one 
grew before to the places where that 
very desirable feat may best be per- 

The activities represented by_ the 
Industrial Bureau are a comparatively 
recent development in railroading. 
Their systematic beginnings* date back 



less than fifteen years to the efforts 
of some of the railroads west of the 
Mississippi to encourage a more rapid 
occupation of their still sparsely popu- 
lated territory and attract business 
that would increase traffic. Out there 
it was a relatively simple task, dealing 
chiefly with agricultural opportunities 
and increasing staple crops. The de- 
partments, or bureaus, created to 
organize these activities were out- 
growths of the land departments of 
the great land-grant railroads, like the 
Union Pacific; the Northern Pacific; 
the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe; 
the Illinois Central. The marketing 
of these great tracts of the public 
domain, apportioned to these railroads 
by the Federal Government to encour- 
age transportation facilities that were 
to transform the wilderness, was 
organized on a large scale. To at- 
tract settlers the departments in 
charge had accumulated an enormous 
fund of information as to the resources 
of the country and what might best 
be done with it. So when the land had 
all been sold off and the business of the 
departments wound up it was evident 
that it should prove advantageous to 
utilize the experience thus acquired, 
and encourage developing the lands 
that had passed into other hands. 

It was in the South, however, that 
the pioneer work in promoting general 
industrial development for a railroad's 
territory was instituted. When the 
late President Spencer took charge of 
the Southern Railway he sent for Mr. 
M. V. Richards, who had been asso- 
ciated with him in railroad activities in 
the West, and had made a mark in the 
more restricted field in that section, 
and commissioned him with organizing 
a "Land and Industrial Department." 

Not only was the work admirably 
organized at the start; the year closed 
with a deal of practical accomplish- 
ment in the directions aimed at more 
than justifying expectations and show- 
ing that the field was vast and fertile. 
Mr. Richards's department has ever 
since been a model of its kind, and the 
example set has been extensively fol- 
lowed by other railroads. 

New England's Industrial 

The nature of the particular terri- 
tory, its resources in raw material or 
industrial or agricultural products, its 
commercial methods, the character 
of the public, vary so greatly in differ- 
ent sections of the country that, when 
a railroad organizes activities of this 
kind, it must shape its course accord- 
ingly. Methods that would admirably 
meet the requirements of one part of 
the country might be wholly unsuited 
to those of another. In certain re- 
spects, however, New England has 
much in common with the South in 
the underlying conditions for indus- 
trial development. Both are historic 
regions with old established institu- 
tions. Both have a great diver- 
sity in the elements that underlie 
growth and production. Both are 
extensively engaged in manufacturing; 
the agriculture of both sections largely 
has to deal with lands that have been 
under cultivation for generations, but, 
as a rule, still richly productive under 
intelligent treatment. The South, 
however, is rich in the raw materials, 
both agricultural and mineral, that 
enter into her manufacturing pro- 
cesses; New England is extremely 
limited in that respect. The South 
is only at the beginning of her manu- 
facturing development; New England 
is the most highly developed part of 
the country. The South is predomi- 
nantly rural; New England is pre- 
dominantly urban. The manufactur- 
ing expansion of the South is handi- 
capped by its limited labor supply; 
New England is rich in skilled and 
highly efficient labor; new labor tends 
to gravitate to a labor market where 
employment is extensive and condi- 
tions of employment governed by 
hours of work, and other legislative and 
economic restrictions are more at- 
tractive than in a section where few 
such restrictions exist. 

The Bureau Organized and at Work 

The New England Lines Industrial 
Bureau is established in the interest 




of the New York, New Haven & Hart- 
ford Railroad Company, the Boston 
& Maine and the Maine Central Rail- 
roads. Mr. W. H. Seeley, who for 
several years had been general freight 
and passenger agent of the Central 
New England Railway, was given 
charge as manager of the Industrial 
Bureau. Deeply interested in the 
work and keenly alive to its splendid 
possibilities, he took hold energetically. 
He was well qualified by a thorough 
training in railroad traffic — the busi- 
ness-getting and revenue-producing 
side of transportation. 

The industrial department of a rail- 
road offers a fascinating attractiveness 
for any man interested in the doing of 
things, in seeing them done, in getting 
them done, and in the various aspects 
and operations involved. The work 
brings one into contact with almost 
every aspect of productive activity in 
New England. No other part of the 
country, not even the South, has such 
diversified aspects of transportation 
as New England, with all the manifold 
pursuits of its people. 

The functions of a railroad's indus- 
trial department in New England, 

being concerned with promoting con- 
ditions that mean the improvement of 
traffic from one end of the six States 
to the other, have a corresponding 
diversity. Industry means all human 
activity that is productive or in any 
way useful; in the general sense of the 
word the field of this department covers 
everything that has to do with pro- 
moting new or increased business of 
any kind. It broadly classifies itself 
under three main divisions: the pro- 
motion of manufacturing, together 
with commercial and mercantile enter- 
prise of all kinds; of agriculture; and 
of the pleasure business for which New 
England offers a richer and more varied 
field than any other region in America 
and perhaps in all the world. Pleas- 
ure traffic in itself constitutes one of 
the largest and most lucrative activi- 
ties of New England railroads it re- 
acts upon ordinary traffic in intricate 
ramifications. A single instance will 
illustrate this latter point: the vast 
quantity of foodstuffs of all descrip- 
tions — flour, meat, fish, vegetables, 
fruit — that have to be transported 
to feed the hundreds of thousands ot 
summer visitors who annually come 





to New England from other parts of 
the country. 

Growth of population means growth 
of traffic; every year the summer popu- 
lation of New England thus undergoes 
an enormous increase. The magnitude 
of pleasure business for New England 
may be appreciated when it is stated 
that the most recent estimates, care- 
fully computed by competent investi- 
gators, erring on the side of conserva- 
tism, if at all, place it as amounting 
to at least £100,000,000 annually. 

With New England's manifold 
attractiveness one includes landscape 
and climatic charm, admirable high- 
ways, historic features, recreative 
facilities, and social advantages. For 
patronage the richest and most densely 
populated parts of the United States 
are near at hand. Hence sagacious 
traffic experts agree that, enormous as 
this volume of pleasure business al- 
ready is, New England is hardly more 
than at the beginning of what she is 
destined to show in these directions, 
even in the near future. In this di- 
rection alone the Industrial Bureau 
of the New England Lines has an im- 
mense field for its activities. 

A Fourteen Months' Record 

It was stated at the beginning that 
nearly $2,000,000— $1,800,000, to be 
exact — in new industries was brought 
into New England by the Industrial 
Bureau. This was the work of its first 
fourteen months. This sum, it should be 
said, represents manufacturing indus- 
tries alone; the considerable activities 
for the promotion of agriculture and of 
other material interests in New Eng- 
land stands outside of this and could 
not so readily be computed. Even so 
goodly a sum as $1,800,000 might be 
regarded as but a drop in the bucket 
when the billions invested in New 
England manufactures are taken into 
account, but as the work of a single 
agency it stands for a most gratifying 
outcome. It means not only that the 
new industries in question represent 
values of that amount in plant and 
equipment; it means that they will at 
once begin yielding new income for 
the communities where they are es- 
tablished. Increased local trade will 
be created by the at least eighty-five 
hundred increase in population that 
comes with twenty-five hundred new 



employees thus brought in, while in- 
directly other population increase is 
implied by the growth in general trade 
that new industries assure. Both 
these things mean permanent growth 
in railroad traffic. 

These new industries stand for a 
wide diversity of products: engine- 
tractors, cold-rolled steel, thermos 
bottles, clocks, furniture, leather, 
tacks, novelty goods, textiles, bicycles, 
automobile supplies, surgical supplies, 
paper bags, iron cans, lumber, lime, 
cement, sardine packing. In con- 
ducting negotiations in these direc- 
tions altogether four hundred and 
forty-two industrial propositions have 
been handled and fifty-one per cent of 
them have been adjusted. More im- 
portant than the $1,800,000 repre- 
sented by the value of these new in- 
dustries is the circumstance that as a 
rule each one may be regarded as a 
lusty infant, destined to grow, as 
thousands of other New England in- 
dustries have grown, into concerns of 
large importance — multiplying capi- 
tal, extending pay-rolls, and increasing 
outputs correspondingly; moreover, 
they represented so many nest eggs 
attracting other industries about them. 

Manifold Activities 

In settling down to work the Bu- 
reau had first to find itself by surveying 

its field, studying its character and 
possibilities, getting into touch with its 
public, learning the commercial, in- 
dustrial, and agricultural aspects of it, 
and letting people know what it pro- 
posed to do. There has been no lack 
of effort in all directions, both exten- 
sive and persistent, but it is doubtful 
if more than a comparatively small 
percentage of those who may read 
these words have hitherto known much, 
if anything, about the New Eng- 
land Lines Industrial Bureau, while 
yet fewer appreciate its purposes 
and the magnitude of its possibil- 
ities in promoting New England wel- 
fare. It takes time, of course, for 
knowledge of this sort to percolate the 
mass of a great community, and little 
more than a year has passed since the 
Bureau was established. 

In prosecuting these activities repre- 
sentatives of the Bureau have had 
more than two thousand personal in- 
terviews in all parts of New England; 
one hundred and fifty calls have been 
made upon boards of trade, chambers 
of commerce, and business men's asso- 
ciations; twenty-five addresses have 
been given before such bodies, touching 
upon various phases of New England 
welfare and the means to advance it. 

Advertising matter to the extent of 
185,000 copies of documents embody- 
ing valuable information has been 





widely circulated. This includes nu- 
merous copies of the monthly periodi- 
cal, The Connecticut Farmer and New 
England Farms, now the agricultural 
organ of the Bureau since the con- 
solidation of New England Farms, 
originally published by the Boston & 
Maine and Maine Central, with the 
Connecticut Farmer. 

Publicity Work 

Circulars and letters relating to the 
work of the Bureau, to the number of 
220,000, have been sent out. Of these 
35,000 circulars have been distributed 
among the freight and passenger agents 
of the New England lines and among 
numerous business organizations, both 
disseminating and seeking information 
concerning subjects relating to New 
England development. As many as 
14,000 posters and placards adver- 
tising the Bureau have been placed in 
railroad stations and in trolley cars 
throughout New England. Railroad 
stations are particularly good localities 
for calling attention to a subject having 
to do with New England development; 
they are daily frequented by people 
likely to be interested, while the cir- 
cumstance that railroad policy rigidly 
and very properly excludes commer- 
cial advertising from the premises 
makes the appeal of such matter es- 
pecially strong. The latest thing in 
this direction is an illustrated placard 
announcing that "the New England 

Lines Industrial Bureau is receviing 
many requests for vacant factories, fac- 
tory sites, water powers, farms, hotels, 
camps, hotel and camp sites, shore 
property, timber land, marble, granite, 
stone and sand deposits. If you have 
property for sale or to rent, list a de- 
scription of it with this Bureau. The 
service is free. Blanks for that purpose 
may be obtained from local ticket agents ." 

A very recent instance of the 
Bureau's New England propaganda 
is the calling attention of manufac- 
turing concerns in New York City to 
the opportunities for new industries 
presented by New England, distribut- 
ing among them 25,000 pieces of ad- 
vertising matter. Many New York 
manufacturers are outgrowing their 
cramped quarters and costly sites, and 
are likely to seek more commodious 
locations with conditions favorable to 
industrial growth. There is already 
something of a factory exodus from the 
city, and it is predicted that eventually 
Manhattan will practically be entirely 
devoted to commercial and mercantile 
activities. One of the important man- 
ufacturing establishments that was in- 
duced to come to New England by 
the Industrial Bureau removed from 
New York City for the sake of more 

The Industrial Bureau has a power- 
ful auxiliary force in the army of 
station and ticket agents employed 
by the New England lines. Excellent 



advantage has been taken of this cir- 
cumstance. Agents are furnished with 
blanks for the use of all persons in 
their localities desiring to list for sale, 
rental, or occupancy factories, factory 
sites, hotels, camps, or good sites for 
these. Activities along these lines 
are further promoted by carrying in 
the widely circulated traffic folders 
of the various New England lines 
advertising designed to meet inquiries 
for such properties. 

America's Greatest Playground 

The efforts of the Bureau are par- 
ticularly directed towards building up 
pleasure business by encouraging com- 
paratively small hotels and comfort- 
able boarding houses for persons of 
moderate means; also to promote the 
location of camps in pleasant places. 
All this tends to bring multitudes to 
New England from all parts of the 
country for recreation. One of the 
most valuable instrumentalities to this 
end is the popular list of hotels and 
boarding houses carefully compiled for 
the railroads each year. 

Growing immensely in popularity is 
the care-free and wholesome outdoor 
life, free from display and ostentatious 
dress, at the well-organized summer 
camps rapidly increasing in number all 
over New England — some for boys, 
some for girls, some for grown-ups. 
Opportunities for these are practically 
innumerable on seashore, lakes, and 
rivers; information concerning them 
made available by the Bureau is 
eagerly sought. 

Stimulating Agriculture — Sour 
Lands Sweetened 

Among the means adopted to stimu- 
late agricultural production is the 
preparation of a list of the produce 
shippers in towns of five thousand in- 
habitants or less. These are designed 
for distribution in the cities. On the 
other hand a list of the grocery, mar- 
ket, and commission men in the cities 
is intended for distribution in such 
towns. In this way both the producer 

and the purchaser of New England 
products are encouraged. 

A study of conditions underlying 
New England argiculture brought out 
the fact that one of the greatest needs 
was more lime in the soil. The greater 
part of New England has compara- 
tively little lime, unlike the country 
west of the Alleghanies, where lime- 
stone is the almost universal rock. 
While New England soil is constantly 
replenished with nearly all the neces- 
sary elements of fertility supplied by 
the gradual disintegration of the native 
rock, the cultivated land in general 
stands badly in need of lime to correct 
the acidity induced by generations of 
use. Fortunately numerous localities 
throughout New England have lime 
formation. Hence with organized ef- 
fort lime in suitable shape can be 
transported to nearly all parts at rates 
so reasonable as to bring it within 
reach of all farmers. The lack of such 
effort has kept prices of lime so high 
as to discourage its use. It having 
been ascertained that something like 
seventy-five per cent of the soil in 
New England needs lime, the New 
England Lines Industrial Bureau is, 
therefore, negotiating with a newly 
organized concern to put the product 
on the market at about half the price 
charged before. An enterprising 
quarry owner in Stockbridge, Mass., 
was found whose snow-white crystal- 
lized rock, really a marble, in its natural 
state looked good enough to eat, like 
sugar. Other lime-producing locali- 
ties in different parts of New England 
are being looked up with reference to 
similar arrangements. It is expected 
that eventually no point in New 
England will be over one hundred or 
one hundred and fifty miles from 
the source of supply. The rail- 
roads composing the New England 
lines are alive to the desirability of in- 
creasing agricultural production by 
supplying this important element in the 
soil and thus building up business for 
themselves. This lime rock, pulver- 
ized to a fineness to pass through a 
mesh of two hundred to the inch, 
gradually unites by natural chemical 



action with other elements in the 
soil, and brings it up to the proper 
condition. In this way the sour 
fields, indicated by sorrel and poor 
crops, can be redeemed from barren- 
ness. This particular work of the 
Bureau is regarded as one of the most 
widely beneficent of its activities in be- 
half of the New England farmer. It 
is an earnest of good offices in mani- 
fold other ways. 

An Experimental Farm and Colony 
in Maine 

A notable activity of the Bureau 
was its securing of an option on an 
extensive tract, comprising thirty-six 
thousand acres, at Cherryfield, on the 
Maine Central Railroad's Washington 
County line, nearly halfway between 
Bangor and Eastport. This option 
was obtained for the Maine Central 
and placed in charge of the Industrial 
Bureau for the sake of practically il- 
lustrating, by means of actual demon- 
stration, what can be done for agri- 
culture in a region typical of conditions 
in a large part of Maine, applying the 
best methods to the ordinary circum- 
stances of the average farmer. An 
experimental farm is therefore now 
being conducted at Cherryfield under 
the supervision of the Bureau. It is 
also aimed to attract a good class of 
farmers to settle upon this tract and 
conduct their own operations in the 
light of the object lessons here given 
for their benefit. 

Assisting Local Industry 

An instance of the Industrial Bu- 
reau's encouragement of local devel- 
opment in manufacturing is furnished 
by Boston's important northern sub- 
urb, Everett, where the enterprising 
local Board of Trade was looking about 
to see what could best be done to build 
up new industries. The Everett 
Board of Trade Associates was or- 
ganized for the purpose. In response 
to encouragement from the Bureau it 
secured a conveniently located tract of 
eleven acres, with a view to industrial 
development. No sooner was the 

matter definitely determined and the 
land purchased than the Boston & 
Maine Railroad laid an industrial track 
into the property so that factories 
established there might load their prod- 
ucts directly into the cars. The 
heartiest railroad co-operation was 
promised. The improvement of the 
property is now proceeding along 
the best modern lines and a very 
considerable addition to Everett's 
taxable productive resources is assured, 
as well as a permanent increase in rail- 
road traffic. It is significant that not 
long before this one of the chronic 
objectors to the new order in New 
England transportation had been har- 
anguing the Everett Board of Trade 
concerning the maleficent purposes of 
the railroad interest now controlling 
the Boston & Maine and predicting 
the direst consequences in the way of 
suppressing development and throt- 
tling New England industry. In the 
light of what actually did happen it was 
evident that actions speak louder than 

Gathering in the Facts 

The local agents of the railroad soon 
proved their worth in co-operating 
with the Bureau. Valuable aid has 
come from many of them in spreading 
a knowledge of its plans and possi- 
bilities among the people of their 
localities; also in acquainting the 
Bureau with conditions in their neigh- 
borhoods and with opportunities for 
development. An enormous mass of 
information has thus been obtained, 
accurately listed and placed on file by 
means of the great variety of blanks 
given out. These are made easily 
accessible to inquirers for all sorts of 
properties and opportunities. The 
blanks are so worded as to convey, 
when filled out, the most exact and de- 
tailed information concerning the sub- 
ject in hand, so that a good picture 
might almost be drawn from the in- 
formation given. For instance, any- 
body wishing to establish a factory in a 
favorable locality could easily tell, from 
the information contained in the lists 



of factory sites for sale, whether a 
given locality would be suited to his 
purposes. He would learn the char- 
acter of the land, its relation to the 
railroad, the possibility of siding 
facilities, length of frontage if border- 
ing river or sea, possibility of dock con- 
struction, depth of water, possible rail 
and water connections, labor condi- 
tions, character of local transporta- 
tion, electric-car service, possibilities 
of gas and electric installation, sewer 
connections or drainage, rates for gas 
and electric light or power, water 
power conditions, taxation conditions. 
All sorts of details concerning agri- 
cultural conditions all over New Eng- 
land are thus recorded: facts and op- 
portunities about fruit lands, potatoes, 
corn, dairying, nursery products, tim- 
ber lands. Inquiries concerning all of 
these things are constantly coming in. 

The Riches of New England 

It has been remarked that New Eng- 
land is poor in raw materials and in 
natural resources. The statement is 
but relative, however. As a matter of 
fact, under her more limited conditions, 
New England is exceedingly rich in 
many of these things. It is extraor- 
dinary the value that can attach 
to the commonest things under foot 
or all about us, — rocks and dirt and 
water, — when of some special quality. 
In so intangible a feature as climate 
New England has as great an asset as 
California has. 

As to mineral wealth, every one of 
the six States has an abundance of 
mines, and very profitable ones, worked 
on a great scale: granite at Quincy, 
Cape Ann, Concord, on the Maine 
coast and Barre, Vt.; feldspar in Con- 
necticut: marble in the Berkshires and 
in Vermont; asbestos and talc in Ver- 
mont; vast deposits cf iron pyrites in 
Massachusetts, — "fool's gold" no 
longer but extensively mined for the 
sake of the abundant sulphuric acid; 
high grades of slate; quantities of other 
minerals. Even so common a thing as 
sand has its value almost anywhere 
in New England when convenient to 

neighboring population, where a good 
sand bank makes a deposit to bank on. 
A " sand mine," when consisting of good 
moulding sand, yields a product worth 
shipping a long ways; it yields more 
profit -per carload, and is actually 
worth more weight for weight, than a 
corresponding amount of copper ore 
from many a good copper m'ne. New 
England has a wealth of such minerals; 
their possessor, unlike many a mine 
owner elsewhere, has a sure thing in a 
most dependable asset. 

Turning Water into Gold 

This particular text deserves the 
biggest sort of "secondly." Water 
is the commonest of all minerals. In 
solid form it has long been a great 
New England staple, the ice crop 
a widespread source of wealth. The 
Industrial Bureau's list of ice plants 
in operation in New England is 
formidable. They are natural ice 
plants; artificial ice plants are on the 
increase, to be sure; but judging by the 
many inquiries the day is a long way 
ofT when they will supersede Jack 
Frost as an ice manufacturer. This 
aspect of the matter is considered only 
by way of preface. It has been said 
that New England is poor in raw 
materials. But in her water she has 
the richest of resources in raw mate- 
rial, in natural product. 

The ice yield, with all its yearly 
revenue, is a trifle in comparison to the 
value of New England's water power — ■ 
more than the equivalent of the vast- 
est coal measures. This "white coal," 
this liquid fuel, has been locally worked 
ever since the Pilgrim Fathers dammed 
brooks into millponds. But even with 
the mighty Connecticut and Merrimac 
rivers developments of the first great 
mill period in textile productiveness 
and counting the significant operations 
of recent years in electric transmis- 
sion, this wonderful asset has hardly yet 
even been touched in the way of splen- 
did possibilities. The doubling of the 
busy Blackstone's power yield by the 
construction of new basins in the 
higher hillside valleys gives a hint of 



the vast development in store all over 
New England in these directions from 
a source of energy, absolutely in- 
exhaustible, that will continue serving 
the busier and better New England of 
coming generations when Pennsyl- 
vania's anthracite has become the 
dimmest of memories. 

So the falling waters of New Eng- 
land are yearly taking upon them- 
selves more and more the work that 
King Coal has been almost monopoliz- 
ing. The time cannot be distant, 
comparatively speaking, before it will 
be running the railroad trains, the 
trolleys, and the mills nearly all over 
New England as well as lighting the 
dwellings and cooking the meals of the 
people; perhaps smelting ores and heat- 
ing houses in the winter, as it already 
heats the trolley cars as the cheapest 
fuel under the circumstances. By the 
time the last possible gallon of surplus 
water has been impounded in upland 
valleys before it can run waste to the 
sea in winter floods — and perhaps 
long before then — -the mightier task 
of taming the yet greater energy of the 
tides and the sea waves will be taken 
successfully in hand all along the great 
coast lines. 

These things assure to New England, 
with her hills and her rainfall, her 
streams and her shore, an industrial 
primacy whose impregnability no 
wealth of other resources elsewhere 
can well menace. Already the radius 
of energy from the Connecticut and 
Deerfield rivers in western Massa- 
chusetts, southern Vermont and New 
Hampshire extends as far as Provi- 
dence — a greater distance than to 
Boston. The many inquiries for water 
power, and for industrial opportuni- 
ties where water power is available, 
indicate that the New England Lines 
Industrial Bureau is destined to be an 
important factor in realizing these 

It may readily be seen how the 
Industrial Bureau may thus signify 
the beginning of a new era in New 
England transportation under a com- 
mon management. Its work, and the 
handsome achievements that already 
stand to its credit, give good earnest 
of the motives actuating the new and 
sagacious spirit which perceives that 
the welfare of New England's trans- 
portation agencies can be furthered 
only by promoting in all possible ways 
the welfare of these six States. 

New England Magazine 



FRONTISPIECE — New Grounds of Perkins Institute 
for the Blind ....... 


DIRIGO — A Poem . Barnard Monroe 


THE POSSIBILITIES OF PINKIE (continued) . Christina Emerson 





POSERS Ethel Syford ... 436 


THE GUARDIAN — A Serial. Chapter XV (continued) Frederick Orin Bartlett. 443 

Entered at Boston Post Office as second-class matter. Copyright, 1910, by New England Maga- 
zine Co.. $1 .75 A YEAR. Foreign Postage, seventy-five cents additional, 15 CENTS A NUMBER 

Pope Building, 221 Columbus Ave, Boston, Massachusetts 

^Beautiful ^Cew England 

Studies of the Distinctive Features 
of New England Landscape 


NATURE'S Indian summer richness 
and pageantry have made their 
exit. The blazing torches of the 
sumach smoulder and char in 
the frosty air, and the luminous leaves 
that gleamed like red coals but a few 
weeks ago crackle under our feet. A 
few sturdy oaks are yet full-clad, and 
their dark rich leaves seem to have 
toughened to leather in their obstinate 
resistance. Occasionally a beech be- 
decked in orange and amber leafery has 
defied the chill of November. The per- 
fume of summer flowers is gone, and 
instead we have the rich aromatic fra- 
grance of the pines and spruces and of 
the balsam fir with its resinous pungent 
sweetness, and the rich vigorous green 
of its spire-like tops towering over the 
spruces in the cathedral-like woods. A 
purple haze envelops the distant hills, 
and the air is ominous. The feathered 
songsters have left us, and the "caw" of 
the crow, the screech of the owl, the cry 
of wild geese, and the moaning of the 
wind are the music of November. , It is 
the month of discords and of unresolved 
harmonies, — the swan-song of the year. 







New England Magazine 



Number 3 

The Conversion of M. Herve 

HOW easy it is to ignore the 
most palpable facts in the in- 
terest of an engaging theory- 
is humorously illustrated in a 
recent English pseudo-scientific book, 
the main thesis of which is that "inas- 
much as ether does not exist, no 
force reaches the world from without 
itself." This extraordinary statement 
is made by a human being who, sup- 
posably, daily feels the warmth of 
the sun. It is not often that so exact 
a science as that of physics is invaded 
by the pseudo-scientist. His favorite 
fields are sociology and psychology. 
Books on sociology are largely respon- 
sible for a vague general belief that we 
are living in an age of great and omi- 
nous social discontent. Most of us 
have supposed that it was the other 
fellow that was discontented in this 
world-shaking manner. We have been 
conscious of no such sentiment in our 
own hearts. We have vaguely ac- 
cepted the statement as true because 
so many writers declare it to be true. 
The Outlook, in particular, appears to 
take the fact for granted, which is un- 
fortunate in a journal formerly so 
influential. But it is becoming in- 
creasingly difficult to find the awful 
instances necessary to keep up the 

And now comes the conversion of M. 
Herve. Who is M. Herve? He is the 
Parisian advocate of violence whose 
tirades in his socialistic organ have 
been directly responsible for some of 
the most lawless uprisings in the French 
capital. He has been regarded as 

the very embodiment, the epitome, 
the aggressive leader of the social dis- 
content. M. Herve has been a name 
with which to frightem law-abiding 
citizens all over France for a quarter 
of a century. Now along comes the 
news of M. Herve's conversion to "pa- 
triotism" and law and order. He for- 
sakes his gospel of violence and re- 
cants his " discontent." Why? I 
dare say that a falling off in the sub- 
scription lists of his unsavory journal 
is at least a contributory cause. Even 
in Paris it is increasingly difficult to 
persuade the masses that they are dis- 
contented. In America the undertak- 
ing is even more hopeless. The only 
seriously discontented people among 
us are those who cannot discover a 
sufficient amount of discontent to prof- 
itably exploit. The repudiation by 
the honest people of the City of Law- 
rence of the pernicious doctrines of the 
leaders of the I. W. W. is a striking in- 
stance. These men came to Lawrence 
to exploit a discontent that did not ex- 
ist. By a carefully organized effort 
they manufactured several made-to- 
order mobs. People whispered "revo- 
lution" under their breath. Now it is 
quite evident that Lawrence does not 
relish the whisper. It is tired and sick 
of being held up for pathological in- 
vestigation. The city resents the 
labors of those who came to heal its dis- 
content. The reason, of course, is that 
the discontent is entirely imaginary. 

One of the few mistakes before a 
popular audience attributed to the 
shrewd wit of Mark Twain was an 




effort to create fun by holding up Long- 
fellow, Whittier, and Emerson to ridi- 
cule. He soon discovered that the 
audience were shocked and was forced 
to desist. He had touched upon a 
theme held too deeply in reverence by 
the American people to be made a butt 
for his wit. And they will always err 
who suppose that the American people 
are anything but reverent and law- 

M. Herve is reported to have de- 
clared that violent doctrines lead into 
blind alleys. Verily they do, here in 
America at least, and with a grimly 
waiting fate at the end of the blind 
alley for the preacher of violence. 

The whole field of sociological dis- 
cussion will be cleared of much cheap 
charlatanism by an admission that 
there is less social discontent in the 
world to-day than at almost any period 
known to history. There are reforms 
enough needed without conjuring up 
specters of revolution and discontent. 
M. Herve's conversion is most welcome, 
not because any of us care what M. 
Herve thinks, but because it robs the 
exploiters of the "social discontent" 
of their most sensational example. 
And among these exploiters by no 
means the least harmful are those who 
attempt to make literary capital out 
of the sensational possibilities of the 
topic. It is more and more difficult, 
fortunately, for these ranters to find 
material that will afford a platform 
from which to rant. 

The discontented masses of America 
are discovered to consist of a few pro- 
fessional strike organizers, a few maga- 
zine writers and sociological"students," 
and a few imported criminals and in- 
sanepersons. Nota veryimposing array 
from which to organize a revolution ! 

To all ambitious writers who desire 
to publish cures for the social discon- 
tent we would say, first, get your dis- 
content. The editor of La Guerre 
Sociale, who gave the police of Paris 
so much trouble in the Ferrer incident; 
the storming of the Spanish Embassy; 
the pro-Liabent procession (Liabent 
the policeman killer), and the pro-Rus- 

set demonstration, of whom it was said 
that a blasphemy from his lips was 
sufficient to throw Paris into terror, — 
M. Herve recants and admits that the 
social discontent is a myth. His con- 
version leaves certain American jour- 
nals and sociological teachers in a very 
ridiculous position. The rest of us 
may take heart. It is no longer neces- 
sary for us to try to imagine that 
we are discontented. Not that we 
ever really believed that we were, but 
it is no longer our duty even to imagine 
that we are. To myself I confess that 
this is a great relief. I have been much 
ashamed of my social contentment. 
Very advanced and very intelligent 
people have none too secretly sneered 
at my lack of advanced ideas. To be ac- 
tually uninterested in any of the latest 
nostrums for healing the social dis- 
content I have felt as a keen disgrace. 
But I have been unable to help my- 
self. Our country seems to me such a 
good place to live in, and our institu- 
tions objects for so much pride and ad- 
miration, that I have been unable to be 
advanced enough to feel the "social 
unrest." It is a tremendous relief to be 
informed by the chief of the discon- 
tented army, that the discontent does 
not exist. 

Now I feel much more free to talk 
about real reforms that are really 
needed. We have work enough in 
hand for the betterment of the world 
without troubling ourselves over these 
imaginary evils. Now if some half 
dozen American labor "leaders" would 
give it up as honestly as M. Herve has 
done, with how much better grace 
could we go to work to really improve 
the conditions of labor and to meet the 
great educational task of training the 
children of the foreigners who come 
to our shores into happy and whole- 
some living and thinking. 

We may assure ourselves that "in- 
cipient revolutions " will fail to revolve, 
and take hold to help those who are 
really working for the betterment of 
the people, for industrial prosperity 
and peace. 

F. W. B. 



It's not her deep green pine trees 

against her cool blue sky, 
It's not her ragged, rocky coast where 

ships at anchor lie, 
It's not her slow, sweet springtime 

which tears your heart in twain, 
It's not her mad, glad autumn with its 

windy wild refrain, 
It's not her lakes and forests or her 

quaint deserted farms, 
It's not the scenery summer seekers 

count among her charms, 
And all her lonesome loveliness of 

woodland, field, and shore 
Is not what calls her children home and 

home again once more. 

It's just the being born there; without 
her proud domain, 

No matter what the radiancy of moun- 
tain, sea, or plain; 

But let her name be whispered, with a 
passion almost pain, 

Her sons, wet-eyed, rise up to cheer 
the sturdy State o' Maine. 

The Work of Cyrus E. Dallin 



WORK of art is of little value," 
Cyrus Dallin once said to the 
writer, "except it springs 
from a natural and spontan- 
eous emotion; that gives it a human 

This undoubtedly explains why all 
classes, from the most ignorant to the 
most cultured, are invariably moved 
when they gaze upon Dallin's pictur- 
esque and pathetic equestrian statue, 
"The Appeal to the Great Spirit;" 
for Dallin has also said: "The Indian 
to me is first of all a human being, with 
emotions and affections. No one is 
stronger in friendship nor quicker in 
appreciation, once you are established 
in his confidence." 

This attitude of mind has made it 
possible for him to interpret and por- 
tray the American Indian as no other 

It is interesting to see how an edu- 
cated Indian interprets Dallin and his 
art. Francis LaFlesche, at the dedi- 
cation of the "Medicine Man," said: 
"This statue at once brings back 
vividly to my mind the scenes of my 
early youth, scenes that I shall never 
again see in their reality. This reopen- 
ing of the past to me would never have 
been possible had not your artist risen 
above the distorting influence of the 
prejudice one race is apt to feel toward 
another, and been gifted with the 
imagination to discern the truth which 
underlies a strange exterior." 

Dallin was born among the Indians 
and lived all through his early youth in 
the mountains of Utah in a small settle- 
ment surrounded by a wall of adobe 
and boasting only log-cabins. The first 
eighteen years of his life were spent in 
this environment, — one devoid of art 
except that of the Indians in their bas- 
ketry, beads, and pottery. 

Dallin tells us it was the Indian who 
first awakened in him a vague but in- 


sistent groping for the artistic; and he 
adds: "He fairly hypnotized me with 
the beauty of his decorations. I ex- 
perienced ecstatic emotions whenever I 
saw one of these splendid fellows in his 
gorgeous trappings." 

The only other color in his drab ex- 
istence was the family flower garden. 
His earliset recollection of his mother 
is in that garden. She lived among her 
flowers. In that frontier community, 
so lacking in those things which her 
soul craved, it is small wonder she 
sought the companionship of flowers. 

Much in Dallin's art is undoubtedly 
due to his mother, an unusual woman 
as one readily understands when they 
look upon the delicately chiseled fea- 
tures of the marble bust that the artist 
has so lovingly executed and that 
stands always on a pedestal near him 
in his studio. 

"My mother gets right down to the 
vital things of life with none of the com- 
plexities," says Dallin; and we say to 
ourselves, "Like mother, like son!" 
for is not this a striking characteristic 
of the artist himself in his creative 

He once said that his interest in art 
was in great simple human feelings; 
and added: "My early life has much to 
do with this. My love for the majes- 
tic and sublime is a direct inheritance 
from the mountains. I always feel 
them as a living force." 

Doubtless his dwelling in such inti- 
mate relation to the Rockies during the 
most impressionable years of his early 
life did envelop him in an atmos- 
phere giving his own nature a certain 
sublimity of poise. One feels the 
latter when they meet the man or when 
they study his creative work. 

When only seven years old he at- 
tempted to model heads of his favorite 
chiefs, but he was eighteen before his 
work was thought of unusual promise. 

Photograph by Litchfield Studio, Arlington, JVU 


Portrait bust irTmarble by Mr. Dallin 



Which won the gold medal for Mr. Dj 
at the St. Louis Exposition 



He was then working in a mining camp, 
.sifting ore. One day the miners struck 
a bed of soft white clay, and young Dal- 
lin immediately improvised some tools 
and set to work. He modeled two 
life-size heads which were so admired 
by the miners that they sent them to a 
Fair in Salt Lake City. 

This was the beginning of a new life 
for the young aspiring artist. Two 
wealthy mining men in Utah saw these 
clay heads and were so convinced of the 
genius back of them that together they 
launched the young man on his artisitic 
career. They sent him to Boston, 
where he commenced study with Tru- 
man H. Bartlett, the sculptor, remain- 
ing with him for many months. 

For nine years the young artist re- 
mained in Boston, working conscien- 
tiously and untiringly, with many heart- 
aches and actual hardships, but going 
forward in his profession at leaps and 

He had been studying but four years 
when, to his astonishment and delight, 
he was awarded a prize for a statue ex- 
hibited at the Boston Art Club. This 
was his first model of the equestrian 
statue of Paul Revere. He afterward 
made a second a third, and a fourth 
model, — Carlyle says, "Genius is the 
capacity for infinite painstaking," — 
and the fourth appealed so strongly to 
a Boston committee that the work was 
intrusted to him and a contract signed. 
The model was exhibited, contributions 
solicited, but of no avail. Bostonians 
who have seen this work, dramatic in 
its conception and full of spirit, deeply 
regret their loss. 

In 1888, when Dallin was twenty- 
seven, he went to Paris to pursue his 
studies. There he immediately at- 
tracted the attention of one of the most 
able French sculptors, Henri Michel 
Chapu. "A wonderful man," says 
Dallin; "the relations between him- 
self and pupils like that of the old 
Florentine School." 

It was at this time that Dallin made 
the acquaintance of Rosa Bonheur, 
whom he found most charming and sym- 
pathetic. During the six months that 
Buffalo Bill with his company of In- 

dians remained in Paris, Dallin and 
Rosa Bonheur often worked together 
in the camp, frequently from the same 

"I was surprised," says Dallin, "to 
find her a fervent admirer of the Amer- 
ican Indian. In her early years, she 
told me, she had been a great reader of 
Cooper, and in that way was familiar 
with the Indian and his life. 

"I remember the last day we visited 
the Indian camp, just before Buffalo 
Bill was leaving Paris. She presented 
a ring to an aged chief, telling the in- 
terpreter that it was a token of her 
friendly interest, and to tell him that 
her name in French had a certain sig- 
nificance the same as all Indian names. 
The old chief took the ring, slipped it 
on his finger, saying through his inter- 
preter, 'I place this ring on my finger 
as a sign of friendship, and the finger 
shall leave the hand sooner than the 



The result of Dallin's labors in the 
Indian camp was the life-size eques- 
trian statue which appeared at the 
Salon in 1890 with the title, "The Signal 
of Peace." Later it was brought to 
America and was one of the most com- 
pelling works of art at the Chicago 
World's Fair. It received a gold medal 
and was purchased by Judge Tree of 
Chicago and presented to that city, 
where it now stands in Lincoln Park. 

"I fear the time is not distant," 
wrote Judge Tree in his letter to the 
Park Commissioners, "when our de- 
scendants will only know through the 
chisel and brush of the artist these 
simple untutored children of nature 
who were, little more than a century 
ago, the sole human occupants and pro- 
prietors of the vast northwestern em- 
pire, of which Chicago is now the proud 
metropolis. Pilfered by the advance 
guards of the whites, oppressed and 
robbed by government agents, de- 
prived of their land by the government 
itself with only scant compensation, 
shot down by soldiery in war fomented 
for the purpose of plundering and de- 
stroying their race, and finally drowned 
by the ever westward tide of popula- 
tion, it is evident there is no future for 



them except as they may exist as a 
memory in the sculptor's bronze or 
stone and the painter's canvas." 

This "Signal of Peace" was the first 
of a series of four, representing, in a 
broad sculpturesque motif, the story 
of the red man and his relation to the 
white. The first stands for the wel- 
come; the second, the "Medicine Man," 
the warning; the third, "The Pro- 
test," represents a chief hurling de- 
fiance against the onslaught of his race; 
and fourth, the "Appeal to the Great 
Spirit," depicts the last hope of the 
Indian. " So true of all human beings, 
says Dallin. "When everything ma- 
terial fails, we reach out to the spirit- 

This remarkable series is an example 
of the sculptor's synthetic insight and 
his skillful interpretation of psycholog- 
ical moments. Dallin once said to the 
writer: "An artist who doesn't attempt 
to give expression to the psychological 
is lacking in one of the most potent and 
significant aspects of art." 

The "Medicine Man" was given a 
very conspicuous place in the Salon of 
1899, and heartily praised by the French 
critics. It now stands in Fairmount 
Park, Philadelphia, greatly to the dis- 
appointment of the Austrians. Their 
Fine Arts Commissioners were sent to 
Paris to purchase the statue for a park 
in Vienna, but while they dallied, 
America stepped in and seized the prize. 

It is to be hoped Boston won't ex- 
perience the fate of the Austrians with 
the "Appeal to the Great Spirit," 
but the subscription, so admirably 
launched by the Metropolitan Im- 
provement League and Boston's lead- 
ing artists, is still lamentably insuffi- 

Dallin has just completed a most 
picturesque Indian figure, beautifully 
poised, that has been purchased by Ar- 
lington's new Civic Group. It is the 
heroic statue of an Indian hunter in 
the act of drinking from a spring as he 
rests on one knee, scooping up the 
water with his right hand. 

It will be placed on a hillside 
covered with evergreens between the 
new Town Hall and the Public Library. 

Water will gush from what will appear 
to be a natural spring high up on the 
hillside and will flow down through the 
shrubbery, forming a pool under the 
hand of the Indian. 

The conditions under which the pub- 
lic will view this statue are most subtle. 
The hunter will not appear to be set up 
for the eyes of the public. He will be 
but a figure in the landscape. It will 
seem to all who gaze upon him that the 
joy of discovery is theirs. What a 
finishing touch to a work both vividly 
conceived and skillfully executed! 

One of the most delightful creations 
from the hand of Dallin is his "Don 
Quixote," a statue in bronze about 
three feet in height, now owned by 
Thomas Lawson. "This work," to 
use the words of William Downes, "is 
conceived in an absolutely ideal spirit, 
and is enveloped in an atmosphere of 
romance which is completely in har- 
mony with that of Cervantes. The 
character of Don Quixote, moreover, 
is taken seriously and with a proper 
appreciation of its intrinsic nobility 
and pathos. . . . The Rosinante is posi- 
tively a creation of genius, nothing less. 
The long, lean, osseous head of this pre- 
historic wreck of a nag, and the dismal 
droop of the ears, convey a whole world 
of mournful equine biography. All 
told, this statuette, beautifully cast in 
a rich toned bronze, is one of the most 
delightfully original and imaginative of 
American sculptures." 

Dallin has recently completed a bas- 
relief of Julia Ward Howe. It is of ex- 
quisite sincerity of line, a reticent, 
self-contained work, and an accurate 
likeness. The Boston Museum will 
own this through the generosity of the 
New England Woman's Club. 

Mr. Dallin, who is vice-president of 
the Archery Association, is an archer of 
unusual skill. "I learned to make and 
use the bow and arrow when I was a 
youngster," he says, "and of course 
aped the Indians to the best of my 
ability. To-day my method of shoot- 
ing, in some details, is unlike any of the 
members of the Association, for Indian 
archery differs widely from the Eng- 



Mr.Dallin is interested in three A's — 
art, archery, and astronomy. He has 
an excellent telescope at his house in 
Arlington Heights, and spends many 
of his leisure hours in studying the 

One might expect that a veritable 
son of the mountains would make his 
home on a hill-top. We find it situ- 
ated on one of the highest points in the 
surrounding country, giving an exten- 
sive view of Boston Harbor, eight 
miles away, and off to the east, Egg 
Rock Light, Nahant, and the broad 

The physical outlook of his home is 
typical of the spiritual outlook of the 
man, — yearning always for the widest 
horizon possible. 

On the walls of his home hang many 
valuable paintings which reveal the 
taste of a connoisseur. Among his 
favorites are a Corot, a Cuyp, a Tyron, 
and a Charlet. He also rejoices in the 
possession of two original Barye's 
wax statuettes, one of an ape, and the 
other a marabout bird. 

Mr. Dallin was married in 1891, and 
has three sons. Mrs. Dallin is a wo- 
man of rare personal charm and un- 
questioned ability. In her busy life, 
divided between America and France, 
with the demands of a growing family, 
and those that inevitably come to the 
wife of a prominent artist, she has 
found time for the writing of many 
short articles and one book, "The Lives 
of Great Painters," written especially 
for the needs of young people. 

Her sympathetic interest in her hus- 
band's work is of inestimable value to 
him. Men can accomplish great 
things in an atmosphere of trust and 
faith. How the world at large forgets 
that fact! Dallin declares the public 
has much to answer for in the slow 
growth of sculpture in America. 

"Ideal work is just beginning here," 
he says, and adds: "The trouble is that 
American sculptors have been obliged 

to spend their lives executing orders 
for memorials of defunct statesmen and 
soldiers. In this limited field, however, 
they have attained a high degree of 

On being asked, "What does the 
sculptor's profession offer to our Amer- 
ican young men?" he replied: 

"As in every profession there is al- 
ways room at the top, and I know of no 
profession that offers more than sculp- 
ture to the successful man. The 
field is a large one. The young man 
who contemplates studying sculpture 
and devoting his energies toitmustbear 
in mind that of all professional men the 
sculptor probably finds it most diffi- 
cult to win immediate recognition, and 
he must wait long for financial success. 
The prizes, however, are many, and the 
joy in the work is one of the greatest 
of them." 

Dallin is essentially American in 
sentiment and outlook, and has an 
abiding faith in the future of American 

"There seems to be no bounds to our 
possibilities," he once said; "and what 
we need is a broader appreciation of 
art, and a realization that it means more 
than the mere gratification of the 
esthetic, that it stands for a natural 
expression of what is outside and be- 
yond ourselves, and that it helps us 
to look up and out, to see beauty and 
charm in everything about us, to 
broaden our mental horizon, to elevate 
our feelings, to double our capacity for 
enjoyment, to feel the poetry and har- 
mony of life, and to live with the eternal 
things above the pressure of cark and 
care. That the time is coming, is pe- 
haps near at hand, when the grow- 
ing culture and education of the public 
will accept, nay demand, from the sculp- 
tor works embodying his loftiest ideals, 
we can scarcely doubt. Until that 
time comes, the artist must work and 
hope and wait, and be ever loyal to the 
best that is in him." 

The Possibilities of Pinkie 


{Continued from page 375 of the October number) 

During the winter, when her father 
was out of work, and Patsy getting 
only the irregular jobs that an un- 
trained boy of fourteen can get, the 
larger part of her small wages went to 
feed the family, but the splendor of a 
satin hat and a set of furs, which she 
wore with a lilt that was stylish if not 
well bred, set the Avenue agog and 
a gossiping. The girls were ready with 
tales of Pinkie's doubtful acquaint- 
ances; the women discussed the late 
hour of her return at night; her own 
mother seemed moved, by a strange 
jealousy and hatred, to speak evil of 
the girl. Could she hold herself de- 
cent amid temptation and vile im- 
putation? Charlotte watched, with 
fearful heart, the struggle of the forces 
of good and evil for this girl's soul. 

"I'm goin' on the stage, Miss 
Charlotte. Goin' to get a chance in 
one of the shows. I can act fine, truly 
I can,* an' I'm great at dancin'." 

This announcement was made by 
Pinkie at a club meeting. It may 
have been intended to arouse Char- 
lotte's disapproval and start an inter- 
esting discussion in which Pinkie's 
side would have been taken by the 
other girls, all of them at the "stage- 
struck" age. The club leader saw the 
danger and avoided it by saying: 

"Why not give a play at the House 
this winter? How would you like it, 
girls? If you show that you can act, 
I'll find a good place for you, Pinkie, 
but promise me that you will not go 
without letting me know. There are 
companies that I would be sorry to 
have you enter." 

"Some is awful. I tried it once 
when they advertised for girls at the 
Regent an' I wouldn't stay. The 
girls there wa'n't my class." 

Charlotte rejoiced to learn that 
Pinkie had a standard; sometimes she 
had .doubted it. 

"Would you really get me on, Miss 
Charlotte? How?'^ 

This was something of a poser for 
Charlotte, whose acquaintance with 
theatrical people was small. She felt 
that if the girl showed talent, she 
would be willing to make considerable 
effort to help her in a vocation which 
would give opportunity for better 
wage and better position than the 
other kinds of work open to her and 
would probably prove no more danger- 
ous. The girl had wit, beauty, and 
surprising impudence, which might 
be transformed into the sang-froid 
so requisite for stage success. 

"I think I could get you a chance, 
but, first, let's try the play at the 
House. Think how much the settle- 
ment has done for you ever since you 
were wee tots. Now let's try to do 
something for it." 

The play was the thing with the 
girls. Charlotte's effort to arouse 
them by altruistic motives was un- 
necessary and unheeded. Each girl 
knew that she had talent quite equal 
to Pinkie's, an idea that led to great 
enthusiasm at first, and much dis- 
content later, since no play can be 
found with six leading lady parts. 
The play selected met the require- 
ments as nearly as possible, parts 
were assigned, and club evenings 
were given over to rehearsals. After 
a month, interest began to flag. Even 
Pinkie failed to learn her part. She 
did not have time, she was too tired 
after the day's work, and so on, ex- 
cuses repeated with slight variations 
by the other girls. 

"If you cannot learn a part, how 
can you hope to go on the stage?" 
asked Charlotte, discouraged that her 



effort to arouse the girls to do some- 
thing for the House had come to naught, 
disappointed that Pinkie's supposed 
talent failed to appear. 

"I can dance. Miss Gray says there 
ain't one of the girls can come near 
me," replied Pinkie. 

Ballet girl, even at the height of the 
craze for esthetic dancing, seemed to 
Charlotte a doubtful vocation for the 
girl. But fate soon gave her a lift 
along the road of her desires. 

One hot day in September, after dis- 
couraging visits in the noisy, stifling 
quarter, Charlotte sought rest in the 
comparative coolness of the settlement 
sitting-room and comfort from her 
cool-headed, sympathetic friend, the 
head worker. Faith Wells was a small, 
delicate-looking woman, a shining ex- 
ample of the conquest of spirit over 
body and environment. Despite ex- 
treme sensitiveness and refinement, 
she loved her uncultured neighbors 
beyond scriptural injunction and 
proved a true, but not intrusive friend 
to them. Her fine spirit was a search- 
light for goodness, which it revealed 
behind most unpromising exteriors. 
Charlotte Merrydew called her the 
"Angelic Pun," and said that her own 
mountain of doubts was always 
moved by a few moments' conversa- 
tion with Faith. The paradox of these 
two women, whose Puritan inheritance 
was manifest in manner and dress, 
earnestly discussing the possibility 
of putting Pinkie Driscoll on the 
corps de ballet at the new Opera 
House would have puzzled an on- 
looker unaccustomed to the way in 
which the settlement worker learns 
to lay aside the lorgnettes of class prej- 
udice in her outlook on life. 

"I heard of the place this morning 
from a worker in a church organ- 
ization. One of her girls has been 
dropped. They are trying to keep it 
very respectable. Why don't you try 
for Pinkie? She is determined to go 
on the stage and you can hardly hope 
for a better beginning," said Miss 

"Imagine the horror of some of the 
dear ladies on our Board if they could 

hear your suggestion and see the alac- 
rity with which I act upon it. You 
must stand by me if I am called to 

They both laughed at the thought 
of the consternation likely to arise if 
their efforts became known to some of 
the directors. To them it seemed a 
possible chance for this girl born with 
what, in a higher class of society, would 
have been called "the artistic tempera- 
ment," a somewhat dangerous gift 
placed as she was. 

The Opera House fronts upon that 
desolate avenue which is such a 
strange combination of boarding 
houses, bill-boards, baseball, and art. 
Its shadeless roadway was torn up for 
repairs, making it seem more hideous 
than usual. From under large rec- 
tangular iron lids shot forth flames, 
suggesting those tombs of torment 
drawn by Botticelli to picture Dante's 
vision of the dread city of Dis. Char- 
lotte smiled as she thought how sym- 
bolic her path might seem, but she 
daringly determined to pursue it. 
Finding the unfinished Opera House 
difficult of entrance, she asked a 
workman if he could direct her to the 
office of the manager of the ballet. 
The look of surprise and amusement 
that appeared on the man's face 
aroused Charlotte to consciousness of 
the discrepancy between her appear- 
ance and that of the usual applicant 
for the ballet. The serious pleasure 
that middle-aged Boston takes in 
fancy dancing has not yet led it to the 
corps de ballet. 

The puzzled Irishman replied, po- 

"I know him yer want, miss, but 
it's in the big house down there on the 
corner ye '11 find 'em all. We ain't 
ridy fur 'em here yit." 

The laughter that Charlotte heard 
as she retraced her steps along the 
flaming path did not render the stifling 
atmosphere more pleasing to her. 
She found, at last, the office of the 
manager and sat down to compose 
herself while awaiting her turn to 
speak with him. 

There were men and women, repre- 



senting many nationalities, seated in 
the chairs that lined the room. They 
were all elaborate in attire, but the 
elaborateness varied from elegant Pa- 
risian to shabby secondhand splendor. 
The opera tenor occupied the center 
of the stage, as usual. He was pour- 
ing forth a flood of French, — com- 
plaints Charlotte judged from his man- 
ner and the few words she understood. 
The women seemed possible chorus 
girls. Some of them showed as- 
surance enough to succeed with little 
voice. One or two looked sensitive 
enough to fail with beautiful voices. 
Most of the men held upon their 
knees shabby cases containing in- 
struments. As no one presented him- 
self when the displeased tenor de- 
parted, Charlotte steppped forward 
with her plea. The refined counterpart 
of the workman's expression appeared 
on the face of the director as she 
began, but, prepared by the earlier ex- 
perience, she hastened to explain that 
she sought the position for a young 
girl who seemed to have talent as a 

"Yes, I believe there are places, but 
you must see the manager of the bal- 
let," said the director, and he sent her 
to another house of artistic activities 
on the desolate avenue. 

The manager of the ballet proved an 
imperturbable person. Charlotte or 
her protegee, middle age or youth, all 
one to him, given the ability to dance. 
Make-up could do the rest. 

"Camilla! Camilla!" he called, 
without replying to Charlotte's ques- 
tion directly. "It's Miss Tretelli you 
must see. She can tell you all about 
the place." 

"Signorina," said Charlotte, in- 
stinctively, as the daintiest of round- 
faced Italians literally danced forth at 
the master's call. 

"Miss Tretelli," corrected the sig- 
norina, with a snap of the brown eyes 
that laughed the next second. 

"Miss Tretelli, is there a place on 
the ballet for a young girl who dances 

"Har dance well? Is it that she 
know already the ballet?" 

"Oh, no! Waltzes and all the 
usual dances." 

"Ma, madame, it is not the ballet, 
those dance. It is not so har." 
These young ladee, she nice young 
girl? She is yo' daught'?" 

"No, indeed. She is in my club 
at the settlement. She must earn 
her living some way and she wishes 
to go on the stage to dance. Do try 
her if you can." 

"The club," repeated the ballet 
mistress, in a puzzled tone. "Is it 
that you teach the dance, mees?" 

"Miss Merrydew," Charlotte intro- 
duced herself. "No, I only lead the 
club. Help the girls if I can. Some 
one else taught her to dance. She is 

"That is ver' good. I h'ain' got the 
righ' to say. You mus' come to- 
morrow to the conservator' — 'jus' lit' 
way up the street. La practica is 
eight o'clock. Mrs. Zoblowski, she is 
the top of h'all. She will spik you of 
the young ladee." 

"They rehearse at the conservatory 
at eight o'clock. Bring the girl and 
Mrs. Zoblowski will try her." The 
harsh voice of the manager sounded 
from the adjoining room translating 
the charming Italian's broken English. 
Charlotte felt as if a bear were acting 
as interpreter for a frisky mouse. 

Pinkie kept the appointment for the 
evening of the rehearsal with unusual 
punctuality. The radiance of her 
face was not to be hidden even by the 
new satin extinguisher, evidently pur- 
chased for the occasion. It would 
have been wiser to replace the split 
shoes than to invest in this glory of 
winter millinery in September. But 
Charlotte had grown accustomed to 
luxury-loving poverty that buys an 
automobile coat when it needs a dress, 
skates when it needs shoes, candy 
when it needs bread. It was the im- 
providence of her parents and of their 
parents, of the whole thriftless race, 
that kept them in the slums. The 
spur that would lift the children out 
would never come from the family. 
Would Pinkie's possibilities develop 
in this new opportunity or would the 



shiftless inheritance conquer? On this 
evening Charlotte's hopes were high 
as well as Pinkie's. 

Eagerly they hurried to the conser- 
vatory. There the announcement met 
them that the rehearsal had taken 
place in the afternoon, owing to some 
change of plan — a keen disappoint- 
ment to both. Charlotte sought the 
assistant-ballet mistress. In broken 
English, punctuated by many pretty 
gestures, the little Italian expressed her 
regret at the unexpected change of 
hour. She was pleased with Pinkie's 
height and her fair coloring, but all lay 
in the decision of Mme. Zoblowski. 
Would they go to see her? She would 
be at home at this hour. Following 
the rather vague directions that she 
was able to give them, Charlotte and 
Pinkie started in quest of the "top 
of h'all." 

From the desolate avenue run yet 
more desolate side streets edged by 
ash heaps, marked "for sale" and apart- 
ments marked "to let." Into the 
dim hallways of one after another of 
these apartment-houses they went, 
peering among the cards that cap the 
hole of communication for some com- 
bination of letters that might make 
Zoblowski. At last one was found 
beginning with "Z," and ending in 
"ski" with many unexpected con- 
sonants and a few vowels jumbled in 
what seemed unpronounceable con- 
fusion between. 

"This must be the name, Pinkie, 
though it looks even more difficult 
than it sounds." 

Charlotte pressed the button and 
crouched to listen for a response. 
Pinkie, meantime, laughingly shaped 
her pretty lips to try the difficult com- 
bination. After a few moments' wait- 
ing, Charlotte pressed again, this time 
long and firmly. She grew weary of 
crouching and listening. Pinkie grew 
weary of sputtering consonants. The 
laugh disappeared and dejection began 
to reappear in the girl's face, so far as 
the extinguisher would let it be seen, 
and in her tired, slouching pose. 
Charlotte determined to get something 
definite from the evening's quest. 

It seemed intrusive to open the 
inner door and mount the stairs, as 
if one had pushed past that mysterious 
presence that clicks a welcome, when 
your coming has been announced by 
the hole-in-the-wall, and makes you 
feel that those above are ready, or 
getting ready, to receive you when you 
shall have climbed the weary way to 
their abode. More peering at cards, 
until they came to one that corre- 
sponded with the Z — ski below. They 
rapped, first, Charlotte quietly, then 
impatiently; Pinkie loudly; foot- 
steps sounded within, the door opened 
a crack; a woman's brown eyes peered 
through the narrow space. 

"May I speak with Mme. Zoblow- 
ski?" asked Charlotte. 

"I h'am Mrs. Zoblowski, but I jus' 
come from the rehearsal. I make the 
supper. You muss escuse the dress." 

The door opened wider, revealing a 
pretty woman in a dressing gown, with 
soft brown hair, falling in curls to her 

"I am very sorry to intrude, Mrs. 
Zoblowski, but we were misinformed 
about the time of the rehearsal. We 
will wait as long as you like if you will 
only speak with this young girl about 
the position on the ballet." 

The husband might come from the 
land of unpronounceable names, but 
the gracious sweetness and the brown 
beauty of the wife came out of Italy. 

"Sure, I will be ver' gla'. It will 
not be long that you wait." 

She led them to a tiny parlor, placed 
chairs with kindly hospitality and 
then ran back through the long dark 
hall to attend to the supper that was 
extending its appetizing odor through 
the apartment. 

The little parlor illustrated that 
artistic confusion of which Charlotte 
had read, but which she had never 
before encountered in her well-ordered 
New England life. Mme. Zoblowski 
had cleared two chairs for her guests by 
throwing a street dress and a Moorish 
ballet costume on the tete-a-tete, which 
already held a man's coat and riding 
boots. A spangled tarlatan skirt, fas- 
cinating to Pinkie, lay like a monster 



thistle-down on the other chair. The 
table held a derby and two dainty 
"chapeaux," ballet slippers, and a 
confused reticule. Manifestly the 
wardrobe could not hold clothing, 
since a projecting corner of blanket 
revealed it to be a bed. Charlotte 
suspected the elaborate lace curtains 
of hiding hooks rather than windows. 
Each article of furniture seemed in- 
tended for some use which its present 
form disguised. From the cushioned 
depths of the chair on which she sat 
came a mysterious rattle as of dis- 
turbed bottles or boxes, a warning 
sound that kept her rigidly still; the 
desk was surely a bureau, possibly a 
sewing machine. But before her im- 
agination had completely pictured the 
transformation scene, Mrs. Zoblowski 
returned, in happy mood, refreshed 
by that good-smelling supper. 

"Thees young ladee, she will like 
come on the ballet? Mees. Tretelli 
she tell me how she will be tall and ver' 
whit'. That is ver' good. She know 
not the dance and it is h'already tree 
mont' we haf the rehearse." 

"Please try her. She will work 
very hard. Won't you, Pinkie?" 

"Sure," was all subdued Pinkie 
could respond. 

She stood to show Mrs. Zoblow- 
ski her height which seemed satisfac- 
tory. The brown eyes were keen, as 
they studied the girl's face and figure. 

"She h'all righ' if she can h'only 
learn the ballet in two mont'. The 
others haf h'already h'all the summer 
rehearse. We mus' try. It is not 
so h'easy as she will tink. To-morrow 
h'evening come to the rehears' at the 

"Sarah Levinson's in it, Miss Char- 
lotte. Guess I can do it if she can." 

"Mees Levinshon, she is yo' frien'? 
Ah, la bella! So hart she can work. 
She will you help. Tha's h'all righ'." 

"How did Sarah get on, Pinkie. I 
did not know that she could dance." 

"Sure, her brother got her the job. 
He plays the fiddle, too. Guess I 
don't need her to help me, though." 
Pinkie's syes gleamed in the shadow 
of the extinguisher. 

"She is not simpatica? She make 
ver' good danseuse, Mees Levinshon." 

The keen little ballet mistress inter- 
preted the look, if she missed the 
meaning of the girl's words. 

They talked of salary, which more 
than doubled the wage of a restaurant 
cashier, even if one danced in the second 
row. Pinkie never pictured herself in 
the second row. The costumes, those 
dreams of delight, were paid for by 
the management. To dance before 
admiring multitudes, to dress like 
a fairy princess, to earn by this joyous 
play more than by wearisome work, 
what more could one ask! A dream, 
an improbable fairy tale was coming 
true. Pinkie who should still forget 
all miseries in fairyland had once 
asked Charlotte if it were possible 
that a prince would marry her. Char- 
lotte had replied, with pitying am- 
biguity, that Cophetuas were rare. 
But fairy tales assured her that the 
princess, however disguised, always 
married the prince; and the yellow 
journals assured her that the ballet 
girl often arose to happiness and fame 
by marrying that American representa- 
tive of the prince, the millionaire's 
son. Among the rosy clouds that 
transformed the little parlor, the 
prince was surely wandering in com- 
pany with wonderful dresses and full- 
page yellow journal pictures. 

"We must not keep Mrs. Zoblowski 
any longer, Pinkie." 

Charlotte's voice, which had found a 
kind of orchestral accompaniment to 
the vision, as she arranged details 
with Mrs. Zoblowski, now sounded to 
draw the curtain on the last act of the 
five-minute dreamland performance. 

The "a reverderci" that followed 
them down the stairs had hardly 
ceased to sound in their ears when 
Charlotte heard the snap and thud of 
the transforming wardrobe and she 
rejoiced that the weary little Italian 
would soon be oblivious to the woes of 
training inflexible Jewish and Irish 
girls to perform graceful evolutions 
on the tips of their toes. 

Those visions of success in the front 
row had brought back the glow to 



Pinkie's face. Other visions crept 
warningly into tired Charlotte's brain. 
She half regretted the venture on which 
she had started the girl. 

"Your father or Patsy will have to 
come tor you every night after the 
opera. Do you think they will, 

"Sure, they'll do it. Father's awful 

Charlotte thought of the Linden 
Street gossip and regretted that the 
fussiness of Pinkie's father had not 
been more apparent. 

"You will have to be very quiet and 
respectable, if you wish to stay in that 
company. They will only have nice 
girls. You must be very careful about 
speaking to men or having anything 
to do with them unless you know them 
very well." 

Charlotte's vision did not seem to 
include the fairy prince. But what 
promise would Pinkie not make to this 
leader along the joyous path of dreams? 
For the time being she adored the 
sometime- too -fussy mentor. She 
would follow any advice that would put 
her in the front row of fairyland, in the 
glare of the footlights. 

The next day Charlotte delivered 
to the happy cashier the requisites 
for the rehearsal costume, begged from 
the wardrobes of dancing devotees 
among her friends. These ladies were 
intensely interested, willing to help 
with private lessons, wishing to go 
with Charlotte to watch rehearsals. 
They loved the footlights no less than 
Pinkie and half envied her the need to 
earn her living by so fascinating a 

Charlotte found no time to watch 
the progress of her protegee in the 
week that followed, but toward the end 
of it she called on her at the restaurant. 
Pinkie looked untidy, tired, and by no 
means radiant. Her face seemed 
pinched, as it had before she found the 
occupation that gave her enough to 
eat. Her black waist was frayed and 
spotted. The satin hat, tossed onto a 
shelf above her head, had evidently 
suffered severely in a storm. A cus- 
tomer settled his bill with its leisure 

of satiety, and stood talking with 
impudent familiarity to the girl, who 
flushed deeply at his jokes when she 
saw Charlotte standing in the doorway. 
Under the keen, constantly angry eye 
of the restaurant-keeper, Charlotte 
talked at the little cage with Pinkie. 

"How are the rehearsals going?" 
she inquired eagerly. 

"I ain't goin', Miss Charlotte. 
Father wouldn't give me the money 
for fares an' I can't walk way up 
there after workin' in here all day. 
I'm too tired." 

"I'm awful sorry, too," she added, 
as she saw Charlotte's expression of 
surprise and disappointment. 

Keen disappointment Charlotte cer- 
tainly felt, but queerly mixed with a 
sense of relief. The brightest pros- 
pect for the girl had faded but, at 
least, she would not be responsible 
for launching her on a risky career. 
The girl's excuses were flimsy. What 
had happened? 

"Pinkie, you know that I would 
have given you the money. Why did 
you give it up?" 

"'Twas awful hard. I didn't know 
it could be so hard an' I couldn't give 
up this place cause father's off his job. 
I can't do it, honest." 

"I will talk with your father. In a 
month's time you will be earning 
much more than you do here. Were 
they kind to you? What was so 
hard? You knew that it would be 
hard at first." 

"Sure, they was all right. Mrs. 
Slobky, or whatever her name is, said 
I did pretty good, but it's too awful 
hard keepin' up on your toes like that 
all the time, an' whirlin' makes me 
sick. Sarah Levinson does it dandy, 
but she's been at it all summer an' she 
ain't workin'. 'Tain't no use talking 
to dad. He won't let me give up here 
till he's gone on his job again. Ma 
talked awful about me, an' it ain't no 


There was a warning break in the 
girl's voice; another customer was 
waiting to pay his bill; the manager 
was fuming near by; Charlotte real- 
ized that she must give up her inquiry 



into the real cause of the girl's failure. 
That she had failed was manifest in 
her dejected appearance and in her 
determination not to try again. Per- 
haps it had been too hard for the 
habitually under-fed girl. Years of 
breakfasting on pink ice cream or 
green apples, dining on canned salmon, 
supping on bread and tea, with candy 
and pickles to stop the hungry gnawing 
when the larder was yet more empty, 
could hardly have developed a well- 
nourished body capable of enduring 
effort, and enduring effort the ballet 
girl must make though she seem the 
gorgeous butterfly of earthly existence. 
Sarah Levinson came from a race 
that feeds its children well, that never 
lets go of a good job, that has a natural 
aptitude for the decorative side of life. 
It might be that the ancient feud be- 
tween the girls had helped Pinkie's 
decision. To have shown herself in- 
ferior to the Jewish girl would have 
been bitter to her Irish pride. It was 
useless to speculate upon the cause 
of the girl's change of mind. One 
good thing might come out of it — it 
might end her desire to go on the stage; 
and it did. Pinkie never mentioned 
the subject again. 

On a March day, when the clouds 
prepared a chill combination of ice 
and water, which the wind dashed in 
the faces of the already too cold- 
blooded Bostonians, when brown slush, 
hiding within its depths hillocks of ice, 
gave damp and deceptive footing that 
it might the better soak into any kind of 
pedal covering and complete the freez- 
ing process, on such a day Charlotte 
sought a cup of coffee in "Pinkie's" 
restaurant. She had not seen the girl 
for weeks and wondered how things 
were going in the Driscoll household. 
As she entered she saw, not Pinkie's 
red-bronze pompadour, but a jet-black 
disc bending above the desk. 

"Is Miss Driscoll ill?" she ques- 
tioned through the bars. 

"She's left," replied the owner of 
the black locks, without lifting her 
eyes from the column of figures she was 

"Can you tell me why?" 

"Don't know. Ask the manager." 

She made Charlotte feel that ques- 
tions concerning earlier occupants of 
that cashier's desk were of the nature 
of an insult to the present possessor of 
the position. The angry eyed man- 
ager approached. Charlotte asked 
him the reason for Pinkie's departure. 

"She ain't up to the job," he re- 
plied curtly. 

"But she did do the work for some 
months," ventured her friend. 

" She wa'n't never up to her job." 

He turned away as if the final word 
had been said. Charlotte forgot her 
cup of coffee. There was a lump in her 
throat that might have risen had she 
been thrown out of work herself in 
this chill season, such a big lump that 
she could not have swallowed any- 
thing under the inspection of the 
restaurant-keeper. She decided to go 
directly to Linden Court. Her vivid 
imagination pictured the Driscolls 
starving and freezing. The cold of a 
fireless tenement, more penetrating 
than the March wind, seemed to enter 
her bones. Shivering for suffering hu- 
manity rather than for storm-beaten 
Charlotte Merrydew, she hastened on 
past deserted shops and shows, past 
blocks of saloons, that were not de- 
serted. A man reeled before her, 
stumbled and fell into the street, tried 
to catch at her cloak to pull himself up. 
With pity to leave him and fear to 
lift him, she hurried away, hoping to 
find an officer to send to his assistance. 
The wind was increasing in fury, the 
sleet turning to snow. 

At no hour of the day or night, in no 
extreme of heat or cold, is the Linden 
Street quarter really deserted, but the 
passers were few on this day and these 
few hastening before or battling against 
the storm, their clothing bestuck with 
soft snow, looked like ghosts at dawn 
scurrying to shelter. A mysterious 
pyramidal mass, moving toward her 
through the dim whirl of flakes, re- 
vealed itself as a woman with a baby 
and bundle enwrapped in the same 
covering. As they passed, haunting, 
feverish eyes glared at Charlotte from 
the shadow of the shawl and the wail 



of a sick child sounded a sharp, high 
note above the roar of the storm. 
She was nearly run down by a stout 
priest, who paused not to apologize. 
Charlotte recognized him as the father 
who had passed by the case of the Dris- 
colls when she presented it to him, with 
the remark, "They are degenerates, 
degenerates, Miss Merrydew," and 
had shaken the very thought of them 
from his mind as easily as he would 
soon free his priestly frock from its un- 
comfortable coating of snow. Degen- 
erates or not, some one must see 
that they did not starve and that the 
children had some chance of moral 
uplift. Charlotte had not learned the 
right mental shrug with which to free 
herself from distressing responsibilities. 

The far end of Linden Court seemed 
to have accumulated the snows of the 
entire winter. Stepping from one 
sloppy irregularity to another in the 
footprint path, Charlotte attained the 
smooth slant where the steps should 
have been and felt gingerly for footing 
in the white mass. Before she started 
the sticking door, an odor of frying 
meat greeted her. As she entered the 
dark hall, an unkempt figure with an 
armful of wood pushed open the door of 
the Driscoll tenement. It was Pinkie 
in jacket and petticoat, both very 
dirty, a ratless pompadour lolling over 
forehead and ear. The color that the 
heavy load had brought to her face 
deepened as she saw Charlotte. She 
sank into a chair without greeting her 
visitor. Ma Driscoll, clear-headed and 
more amiable than usual, wiped the 
seat of a chair with her apron, pushed 
it toward the guest, and turned to 
attend to the pork chops sputtering on 
the stove. 

Conditions were not conducive to 
amenities. The unexpected comfort 
in which she found the family seemed, 
strangely enough, to transform the 
pity which Charlotte had felt so keenly 
for them, but a few moments ago, into 
pity for her tired self. Depositing 
the food she had brought, because, 
though needless, there was nothing 
else to do with it, Charlotte began 
conversation with a half reprimand. 

"I'm sorry you lost the place. Did 
you try hard to do the work?" 

" I done the work all right. He said 
I wa'n't honest." 

"The manager didn't say that to me. 
Oh, Pinkie! You didn't take any- 
thing, did you ? You know I told you 
that would ruin you for any place." 

"I never took nothing, not even a 
pin. Didn't I give back a penny a 
lady dropped one day? It wa'n't that. 
His brother'd a kept me, but he didn't 
never like me an' some of the checks 
was wrong. I didn't do it anyway, 
that's sure. I ain't no thief!" 

She was angry, discouraged, ashamed 
to be found in such untidiness. 

"I'm sure you were honest, child," 
said Charlotte, pacifyingly. "I could 
not even try to do anything for you if 
you were not. Is your father working ?" 

"Himself is on part time," said the 
mother, "and Patsy is doin' fine in the 
autermerbil business." 

"That's good! Have you tried for 
anything, Pinkie?" 

"I'm on Mondays and Saturdays at 
Cooper's. They'll take me reg'lar in 
the spring." 

"It's gaddin'she is all the time on the 
street," broke in Mrs. Driscoll's angry 
nasal tones. "Eatin' and not payin' 
nothin'. Puttin' all she gets in hats 
and fixin's." 

"That won't do, Pinkie. You can't 
live like that. What are you going 
to do?" 

Charlotte felt that she had ex- 
hausted her powers without finding 
for the girl a vocation or even work 
that would hold her. The sight of 
the dirty, disheveled figure discouraged 
her; she shivered in her wet clothing 
despite the heat of the room; the 
smoke of the frying meat sickened her, 
yet made her conscious that she was 
faint with hunger. 

"P'r'aps I'll get married!" 

Pinkie snapped this remark forth 
with the air of one who would do as she 
pleased and send counsel to the winds. 
The girl's eyes had a strange way of 
seeming to slant upward, giving a sly, 
ugly look to the face when she was 
{Continued on page 4.4.1) 

The "Simple Life" in the Orient 


IF Charles Wagner had lived and 
died in the Orient he would 
never need to have written his 
"Simple Life," because there 
it is lived so habitually that it is 
taken as a matter of course. In the 
Occident there are movements of dif- 
ferent kinds on foot for the encourage- 
ment of this "simple life." In the 
East it needs no encouragement. 

To an American trained in the eti- 
quette of the West, life in Turkey 
seems like camping out; and one falls 
into their way of living with as much 
delight as here one leaves the stiff and 
formal ways of the city for a week or a 
month of tent-life by mountain or sea- 
shore. All the unnecessary things are 
stripped away, and only those things 
which make for comfort and real ease 
of living are to be found. 

The Turk has been a nomad for so 
long that he still carries the traces of 
the wanderer about him and his home 
is more or less an enlarged and glorified 

What would you think of a home 
in which there were no chairs and no 
beds, no bathroom, no pictures upon 
the wall? Yet such a home may be 
comfortable and artistic. Beautiful 
rugs upon the walls take the place of 
pictures, and instead cf chairs the 
Orientals have long divans running all 
around the room. These divans are 
wider than our couches. They serve 
as" both chairs and bed. The Turk 
sits upon them cross-legged, in the 
attitude so well known through pic- 
tures, and reads or writes in that posi- 
tion. They never write at a desk or 
table, but use the left hand to support 
the paper, and with the little ink-well 
upon the divan or the ground in front 
of them will write all day. 

In the University of Cairo, one of the 
largest in the world, I saw neither desk 
nor blackboards. In the various open- 

air courts the students were seated 
cross-legged on the ground around 
their " hodja, " or teacher, listening to a 
lecture or taking notes on small pieces 
of paper which they held in their hands. 

But to return to the divans, When 
you come to an Oriental house in which 
you are to stop, you are shown into a 
room such as has been described and 
take up your abode upon a section of 
the divan. Anywhere from one to 
ten persons can be accommodated in 
one room. By day you recline there 
and chat — a favorite Oriental occupa- 
tion — or read; and when night comes 
blankets are brought and the same di- 
vans serve as beds. Each one rolls 
up, head to head and foot to foot, 
candles are extinguished, and soon you 
are asleep. 

When the Oriental is in his own home 
he wears only his underclothes to bed. 
Upon getting up in the morning he puts 
on a long dressing-gown and cases his 
bare feet in slippers, — a costume 
more comfortable than any other on 
earth. Why shouldn't men enjoy the 
luxury of such gowns as well as women? 
Collars are unknown. If they wear shirts 
made to hold collars they leave the 
collar off and go about with the collar- 
band only. 

When dressing for the street they 
slip on a pair of light, loose trousers, 
possibly a jacket if the weather is cool, 
and over all the long silk gown which 
comes up to the chin when buttoned 
and conceals a multitude of sins — if sin 
it be to have dirty linen. 

With large, easy shoes upon their 
feet, these light flowing robes, and a 
sunshade over the head, an Oriental is 
as comfortable in warm weather as 
costume will permit. Notice this — 
their costume is built for comfort. 
Those of us who know what it is to hit 
camp in the Maine woods after a long 
hot journey from the city, and strip 




. ' 









••■ . , 




off all the barbaric trappings of civili- 
zation, and then loaf around in the 
luxury of camp clothes, can realize how 
comfortable life is in the Orient, as re- 
gards clothes, at least. 

On account of the seclusion of women 
and their absence from social and busi- 
ness life the men of the Orient become 
rather lax about their personal appear- 
ance. They seldom shave more than 
once a week, or twice a week at most. 
If you meet a government official, an 
editor, a professor, a statesman, the 
highest people of the Empire, you may 
find them with a hirsute growth upon 
their faces which the social life of the 
Occident taboos. Where the Turk 
comes into frequent contact with Eu- 
ropeans this is changed however, and 
he adopts their standards. 

It was laughable yet pathetic to see 
one little change made by the Revolu- 
tion in the matter of street dress. Many 
of the old-style Turks had been in the 
habit of appearing on the street in their 
comfortable kimono-like home costume. 
Under the new regime this was con- 
sidered a little behind the times, es- 
pecially as the European ladies pro- 
tested to the government against this 
untidiness. A law was passed by Par- 
liament prohibiting these poor old men 
from appearing upon the street in de- 
collete, and they had to dress up 

I do not wish to be understood, how- 
ever, as branding the Turk with sloven- 
liness. He is by far the neatest and 
cleanest of all the Orientals. His per- 
son he keeps scrupulously clean, 
washing his face, neck, hands and feet 
with religious regularity (ablutions are 
one of the reqiurements of their reli- 
gion). If he fails to wash the rest of 
his body it is because total immersion 
is not one of the ideals of the East. An 
Oriental can live for a long time with- 
out a complete bath, and be as happy 
as an Englishman would be miserable 
under the same circumstances. His 
clothes he also keeps clean, and even 
the laborers always look neat. A cos- 
tume which contains so many patches 
that the original cloth is hard to dis- 
cover will yet be clean and well kept. 

They are neat, too, in their habits. 
A Turkish food-shop is much neater 
than a Greek or Armenian one. I have 
traveled several thousand miles on 
ship with the peasants of every race in 
the Orient, and have discovered that 
of all these the Turks are the neatest. 

When the Turks come in contact 
with European civilization and adopt 
its costume and habits they are great 
dandies, exquisite in their dress and 
appearance. The Turk is one of the 
handsomest, most graceful, and most 
charming of men, and no one could fail 
to be attracted by a gentleman of this 
race when he puts himself out to please. 

In one respect the East stands at a 
point to which we may hope to progress 
after a few centuries of effort and 
struggle for common sense in clothes; 
that is, they have no change of styles — 
that tyranny of the tailors which de- 
vours so large a portion of our time, 
patience, and money. The Oriental 
buys a silk robe and it is good for life. 
It may even pass down to the next 
generation and still be in style. He has 
no collars, neckties, silk hosiery to 
change from season to season; no 
spring styles and winter styles; no 
change in the form of his shoes; 
and his red fez is good all the year 
round and every year. 

The fez is as democratic a hat as the 
derby. It lasts for years, and costs at 
the most only a medjedie, or 80 cents. 
Rich and poor, high and low, wear the 
fez. It is the national head-dress of the 
Ottoman Empire, and to wear anything 
else would be unpatriotic. If a Turk 
in the interior, where Mohammedan 
customs are still rigidly observed, 
should appear in a felt hat or straw hat 
he would undoubtedly be mobbed, just 
as much as if he insulted his country's 

After the Revolution the New Turks 
tried to discard the fez by gradually 
modifying its shape and appearance, 
but the opposition was too great and 
the matter was dropped for the time. 
One of my Turkish friends, when he 
went on any excursion with me, would 
take a cap in his pocket and upon leav- 
ing the outskirts of the town substitute 



it for his fez, which is not an ideal head- 
dress for a hot sunny day. 

I wonder that the Turks have so long 
let this religious custom of the fez stand 
against their comfort. In winter it is 
all right; but in the bright sun of 
summer it heats the head and affords 
no protection for the eyes and neck. 
Usually the peasants attach a hand- 
kerchief to the back of the fez and drape 
it over the neck to prevent sunstroke. 

At every street corner in the city are 
little shops for cleansing and reshaping 
the fez, usually run by Jews or Ar- 
menians. This work is done for one 
cent, and you go away with your fez as 
good as new. 

The Oriental reverses our customs, 
and when he enters a house keeps his 
hat on but takes off his shoes. I once 
wore a fez, but I could never get used to 
keeping it on indoors or when I met 
ladies. The Turk bows gallantly but 
never lifts his hat. 

The custom of taking the shoes off 
upon entering the house is one which, 
far from being ridiculous, as many 
Americans think, is both comfortable 
and hygienic. None of the dirt of the 
street is tracked into the houses — and 
in the East the streets are pretty dirty. 
Our housekeepers here, who lose so 
much good temper over the careless 
way the men-folk have of tracking mud 
and dirt across a newly cleaned floor, 
can realize the advantage of taking off 
one's shoes at the door. 

The old-time Turk wears thick socks 
and low shoes without any leather at 
the back. They walk with a peculiar 
motion which is necessary to keep such 
shoeson, developing tremendous ankles, 
and upon reaching home slip out of 
their shoes without needing to use their 
hands in theprocess, andwalkacrossthe 
threshold in their stocking feet. Then 
they curl up on their divans as com- 
fortable as a dog by the fire. Since 
the washing of the feet is a religious 
duty, carried out from one to five times 
a day, there is no offensive odor. 

The New Turk, however, who has 
become affected with European foot- 
wear, puts on over his shoes a kind of 
leather overshoe something like a low 

rubber, and takes this off upon enter- 
ing a house, keeping his shoes on. 

Americans who are suffering from 
afflictions which require the services of 
a chiropodist, what would you not give 
if you could shuffle off your tight shoes 
whenever you entered a house and sit 
as the Turk does, in your stocking feet? 
What a comfort! And yet I will 
guarantee that you have considered 
the Turk a most eccentric and un- 
natural man because his custom as re- 
gards the covering of head and foot is 
diametrically opposite to ours. 

Such little things as this, even, may 
teach us tolerance for other races, 
whose customs seem so different from 
ours. Let us remember that there is a 
reason for every such custom, and 
that often this custom may be intrinsic- 
ally better than our own. 

I think a great opportunity is lost in 
our schools by not presenting the cus- 
toms of foreign peoples in such a way as 
to develop tolerance and breadth in the 
pupils. Our geographies have aimed 
too much at arousing interest by show- 
ing the peculiarities of foreign races. 

Just as sure as a child comes to think 
any race peculiar, he will despise it. 
He should be shown the deep underly- 
ing sameness of human nature, which 
expresses itself under different environ- 
meats and needs in different customs. 

On the surface men seem different; 
at the bottom they are one, seeking 
the same things in life, moved by the 
same needs and passions. 

To a stranger a Turk, in his red fez, 
peculiar garb, and swarthy complex- 
ion, is something to wonder at and even 
ridicule, as the old joke in Punch il- 
lustrates: "Any, 'ere comes a stranger. 
'Eave 'alf a brick at 'im." We most 
of us have bricks up our sleeves for 
the stranger. What the world needs 
is to realize that no men are strangers. 
When you have associated with that 
Turk for a while he will become as a 
brother to you, and the differences will 
seem to drop away. 

Since the parents of children of the 
lower classes, where these prejudices 
are strongest, are seldom able to incul- 
cate this tolerance, owing to their own 



limitations, it shoukd be the duty of 
the teachers and text-books of our 
primary educational system. Unfor- 
tunately our teachers are not yet suffi- 
ciently prepared for this. Where cus- 
tom does not conflict with religion, yes. 
But the majority of even educated 
people in this country to-day, while be- 
coming more tolerant of social customs, 
laugh at religious peculiarities which 
are no worse than things in our own 
churches. I shall have another word 
to say on this when I come to deal with 
the religious life of the East. Unfor- 
tunately the Americans are one of the 
most provincial of peoples in these 

In matters of diet the Turk again 
displays his simplicity and common 
sense. One of our most noted dietarians 
whom I met in Constantinople de- 
clares the Turk to have the finest phy- 
sique of any race in the world, and lays 
this fact to his simple diet and absti- 
nence from liquor. 

Although the Turk, when a man of 
wealth and in official life, surrounds 
himself with a luxury of diet befitting 
his rank, those in ordinary walks of 
life are very simple in their habits of 
eating. For breakfast they take only 
the small cup of Turkish coffee and pos- 
sibly a roll. At noon they eat a very 
simple lunch — perhaps only a bowl of 
sour milk (yaourt) and bread. At 
night comes the main meal of the day, 
but not elaborate. It consists of meat 
and rice (pilaff), several dishes of vege- 
tables, salad, and a pastry, ending with 
the delicious Turkish coffee. 

In the summer the Turk is almost a 
vegetarian. The amount of meat he 
eats is very small. He is fond of fresh 
salads and good vegetables and fruit. 

The diet of the workman and peasant 
is simpler still. He lunches off a piece 
of bread and an onion, or any fruit 
in its season. A quarter of a loaf of 
bread costs him one cent, a melon, a 
bunch of grapes, or a piece of cheese 
costs another cent, and for two cents 
his lunch is complete. At night he has 
a stew with cheap vegetanles and a bit 
of meat in it, the whole thing costing 
four or five cents. 

Yet it is amazing the strength of the 
Turkish workman with this slim diet. 

The hamals or porters can carry 
loads of from two hundred to eight 
hundred pounds. They are the most 
astounding burden-bearers in the world. 
It is nothing for one of them to carry a 
piano on his back. I have counted 
twenty-four chairs upon the back of 
one hamal. 

It is perhaps because of the simple 
diet of the Orient, as well as the sooth- 
ing effect of the climate and the ab- 
sence of excitement and worry, that 
the Orientals do not need exercise as 
much as we do. They never suffer 
from indigestion or headache. Yet 
they will remain sedentary from morn- 
ing to night. The idea of walks or 
games or horseback rides for the sake 
of exercise seems preposterous to them. 

It might be of interest to describe 
some of the Turkish dishes. Food made 
from milk they are very fond of — a 
relic of their pastoral life perhaps. 
The most famous dish of this kind is 
"yaourt," a form of cultured milk. It 
has the consistency of thick sour milk, 
and can even be carried in a handker- 
chief. It is made from the milk of the 
cow and also from goat's milk and 
from that of the buffalo-cow, which is 
rich in cream. No more delicious food 
than this has ever been invented, es- 
pecially for hot weather. 

"Sutlack" is a rice-milk of the con- 
sistency of gruel. It is very delicate 
and easy to eat when the appetite flags. 
Then there is "mahalabi," something 
like cornstarch pudding, eaten with 
sugar and rose-water; and "taouk-gok- 
sud," or chicken-breast-milk, made of 
grated chicken breasts. All of these 
dishes are appetizing and easily di- 

The Orientals are very fond also 
of sweet pasties, of which they make 
many delicious kinds. "Ekmek-ka- 
daif" is a sort of bread soaked in 
honey and eaten with the "kaimak" 
or thick cream of the buffalo-cow, 
made up in the consistency of cottage 
cheese. Or if you prefer, there is 
"paklavar," made of thin layers of 
pastry with honey and ground English 



walnuts between the layers. "Tel- 
ka-daif " is made of strings of pastry 
soaked in honey. 

These dishes are almost sloying in 
their sweetness. There is nothing 
weak about them. Half a portion 
would fill most people with sweetness 
enough to last for days. 

In vegetables and fruits the Orient 
is rich. Many of our fruits originated 
in the East and were brought to Eu- 
rope by the Arabian conquests and com- 
merce. In Constantinople one can get 
fresh fruit almost all the year round. 

Strawberries commence in May to 
cover the hillsides of the Bosphorus 
with pickers, and fill the market-places 
with baskets of the luscious fruit. 
Cherries appear in June and last for a 
month or more. For two cents you 
can get all you can eat of them. They 
are delicious on hot, dusty tramps in 
the country. Just as the cherries go the 
melons begin to come in. There are 
many varieties of them and they last, 
into the autumn. Then the figs and 
grapes appear. It is worth while visit- 
ing Constantinople if only to buy a 
bunch of those magnificent grapes 
from a street vender. 

Grapes in the East come in such 
large and beautiful clusters that they 
carry me back to Sunday-school days, 
and the picture cards portraying the 
spies of Moses bringing back from the 
brook Eshcol a huge bunch of grapes 
upon a pole between their shoulders. 
Perhaps when you were in Sunday 
school you had periods of doubt and 
skepticism, as I did, occasioned by 
just such things as these; but come to 
Constantinople and for two cents you 
can get a bunch of grapes large enough 
to dispel your doubts, quench your 
thirst and satisfy your appetite. 

Pears and apples carry one into 
winter, and in January there begin to 
appear the splendid Jaffa oranges and 
tangerines from Egypt, and the cycle 
is complete. 

Fresh vegetables also can be ob- 
tained almost through the year. To- 
matoes, peas, and beans begin to come 
from Egypt in February. Lettuce and 
cabbages can be picked fresh from the 

gardens about Constantinople as late 
as January. The eggplant is a favorite 
vegetable, and the ochre. 

Meats are poor in Turkey, all except 
chicken and mutton. The beef comes 
from Russia, Bulgaria, and South 
America and is poor. Chickens are 
cheap, but one tires of them. The 
mutton is good, but is cut in peculiar 
ways. The meat of the hog is of course 
not to be had in Mohammedan coun- 
tries except from Christian butchers. 

The Turks have a favorite dish which 
consists of eggplant stuffed with 
chopped onions and rice, and cooked 
in oil — delicious but hearty. They 
also stuff marrows with chopped meat 
and rice. Another dish is rice wrapped 
in grape-leaves and steamed. 

Last, but not least, is the great 
staple food of the Orient, "pilaff," 
which is as necessary to their existence 
as the potato to the Irish. Pilaff is rice 
cooked in a certain way so as to pre- 
serve each grain distinct and firm. It. 
is made from unpolished rice, — the 
little white powder about each grain 
forming a gelatinous coat in cooking. 
It is boiled in mutton fat and has a de- 
licious flavor. There is a chemical 
difference in the rice thus cooked, ow- 
ing to this little coat of gelatine about 
each grain, which makes it easier to di- 
gest than our rice. 

Often I sigh for "pilaff" as the He- 
brews did for the fleshpots of Egypt. 
It is a unique dish, and a much more 
satisfying and healthful staple than 
potatoes. There are different forms of 
"pilaff;" it is sometimes cooked with i 
small currants and pinenuts, some- 
times mixed with bits of roast mutton. 
This latter dish, called " kebab-pilaff," 
makes a delicious meal. A plateful 
of the "pilaff" with the freshly cooked 
mutton sliced and scattered through it, 
followed by a bowl of "yagourt," a cup 
of Turkish coffee and a cigarette, puts 
you in a condition of contentment 
where you do not even envy kings. The 
most delicate "pilaff" is that made by 
the Persians and flavored with orange 

Before I leave the subject of food I 
must mention a Persian dinner to 



which I was once invited in Ramleh, a 
suburb of Alexandria. It was nine 
o'clock before we reached the house. I 
was very hungry, as I had been travel- 
ing all day, and was ready to sit right 
down and eat. But we* chatted away 
in the guest-room with no hint of food 
until I began to wonder if the cook 
had absconded or had had his head 
chopped off for flirting with my friend's 
wife. It was ten o'clock. Still the talk 
went on — my host entertaining me in 
execrable French and I answering in 
worse. I don't know which of us was 
bored the most, but I hope he did not 
feel any worse than I did. 

At last the signal for dinner came 
just in time to save me from an acute 
attack of nervous prostration. It was 
eleven o'clock. If I had only known 
that it was the Persian custom to do 
their after-dinner talking before dinner, 
to dine late at night, and to fall asleep 
immediately after, I should have for- 
tified myself with a supper at six o'clock 
and been spared this agony. 

The meal progressed through the 
various stages of salad, meat and pilaff, 
vegetables, until it came to fricasseed 
partridge. I was mildly surprised to 
see my host pick up several choice bits 
of partridge with his fingers and put 
them on my plate. That is a great 
courtesy in the East. I was not able to 
eat all the meat he gave me, and at the 
end a perfectly good wing was still left 
on my plate. As my Persian friend 
passed my plate to the servant he took 
off this wing with his ringers and put it 
back on the platter. 

The ordinary etiquette of the East is 
like camping etiquette with us. Fin- 
gers were made before forks, it is true. 
We have only to go four hundred years 
back to find the same customs preva- 
lent in the best society of England. 

Often the Orientals eat without in- 
dividual plates. The peasants always 
do. A bowl of soup is put down 
on the table and all attack it with big 
wooden spoons until it is annihilated. 
Then meat may come on in little rolls. 
These they eat with their fingers. A 
bowl of yaourt is next placed in front of 
you, and that is scooped out with pieces 

of bread. When the meal is finished 
the only utensils to be washed are the 
wooden spoons and a few bowls and 

This is simple life indeed. Yet so 
neat are the Turks and Persians in all 
their habits that one need not be at all 
disturbed at eating in this way. Too 
much civilization burdens life with 
much unnecessary squeamishness. 

The program of the Turks' "simple 
life" would not be complete without 
making mention of his love for nature 
and the open air. This is one of his 
most admirable characteristics. 

In the spring the shores of the Bos- 
phorus are crowded with pleasure- 
seekers, and how simple and natural 
are their ways of finding pleasure! 
They do not need races or games or 
merry-go-rounds, steeple-chases or 
shoot-the-chutes or dance-halls. There 
are no Cony Islands on the Marmora. 

By boat or by carriage the Turkish 
family seeks a charming valley, a point 
overlooking the sea, or a hill-top with 
magnificent view. Here they pass the 
day in the open air, happy to be in the 
midst of nature and to drink in the 
beauty of the spring. 

All up and down the hillsides of the 
Bosphorus you will find on pleasant 
afternoons groups of people sitting on 
the grass and dreaming. Little chil- 
dren play about. Here and there a 
vender of candy or of ice cream passes. 
Sheep graze on the green slopes. The 
sky overhead is cloudless. The varie- 
gated costumes of the women reflect 
the sunlight in vivid blues, greens, and 
reds. It is an idyllic scene. 

Even the laborer seems to enjoy and 
appreciate nature in a way quite for- 
eign to our farmers. The plowman 
stops between his furrows, sits down 
to a cigarette, and looks off over the 
landscape in a dreamy meditation. 
Crows float lazily through the sky. 
The air is heavy with spring perfume. 
Even the plowman has become a 
poet. Labor loses its hard, toilsome 
aspects and becomes a joyous occupa- 
tion. Who could help being joyous 
upon the banks of the Bosphorus? 

In many other ways, which I can 



only mention here, the simplicity of the 
Oriental shows itself — in his primitive 
way of traveling on shipboard, living 
on the open deck under an awning, 
and cooking his simple meals with a 
spirit-lamp (even the middle classes, 
such as small merchants, doctors, the 
clergy, travel this way) ; in the simpli- 
city of the Oriental shops, so small that 
the owner can reach almost everything 
without moving; in the democracy of 
the Turkish people and their real sense 
of brotherhood. 

All these things must be left for 
further description. Enough has al- 
ready been said to show how thoroughly 
simple is the Oriental way of living. 
The true Oriental, untouched by West- 
ern culture, does very little for osten- 
tation and display. All his clothing, 
his food, his habits, are calculated for 

comfort and peace. He is not encum- 
bered with many possessions. His needs 
are few and simple. His life is an ob- 
ject lesson in happiness. It teaches us 
Occidentals that it is not what we 
have that makes us happy so much as 
what we can do without. It is the ab- 
sence of desire rather than the multi- 
tude of possessions which is the source 
of joy. The spirit of renunciation is 
strong in the East: I should say it is 
natural to the Oriental temperament. 
A little of this spirit inoculated into 
our strenuous, fiercely competitive, 
house-mortgaging and automobile- 
buying American life would not be 
without its advantage. 

From New York to the Bosphorus, 
what a long journey in space, but what a 
longer journey in manners and customs I 
"As far as the East is from the West." 

- ~'«A/*,*L., s . X* 

THE NEW Y.. M. C. A. 

Recent Songs by American Women 



THE spirit of song is the spirit of 
keenly feeling and of freely giv- 
ing. It is the spirit of inti- 
mate sympathy with an emo- 
tional experience, fundamentally. Re- 
sultantly it is the earnest desire to give 
it forth, to give it with all its throbs, 
to revivify it, to catch the unique puls- 
ing of the experience and to hold it 
enthralled for others to enjoy. This 
is the essence of "bursting forth in 
song," and it is therefore small wonder 
that some of our realest and most in- 
dividual song writing is being done by 

The songs of Gena Branscombe re- 
veal a personality rich and intense in 
imagination and emotion and at all 
times sincere. Miss Branscombe is a 
Canadian by birth, but almost the 
whole of her musical study and compo- 
sition has been done in the United 
States. Her creative gift was dis- 
covered by Felix Borowski, with whom 
she studied for seven years. She has 
also been a pupil of the pianist and 
composer, Rudolph Ganz, both here 
and in Berlin. While in Berlin she was 
a pupil of Humperdinck and also had 
remarkable success with several " com- 
poser's evenings" devoted to her own 

Individuality of perception and of 
expression are the distinctive marks of 
Miss Branscombe's work. "There's a 
Woman like a Dew-drop " (from Robert 
Browning's "Blot in the 'Scutcheon") 
is a song of distinctive passionate power. 
It is varicolored in its harmony, and 
the verve and sweeping intensity of its 
feeling fairly lift us into the ecstatic 
and powerful climax. Even more 
spontaneous is "Gliick," the words of 
which she translated from the Gt rman. 
This is one of the most admirable and 
most meritous of American songs. 
It is less pretentious harmonically, and 


its beautiful melody, its charm and sin- 
cere enthusiasm make it fairly perfect 
in its exquisite beauty. "Ould Doctor 
Ma'Ginn" is so simply and so sympa- 
thetically painted in its humor that it 
is a most successful bit of ballad writ- 
ing. As simple and as quaint as any 
old English song are "My Love is like 
a Tempting Peach," and the Christmas 
song, "Hail ye tyme of Holie-dayes," 
both of which are dediacted to David 
Bispham. They have charming and 
individual melody most suited to the 
words, and the direct fullness of the 
harmony makes them genuinely song- 
ful. "Of my Ould Loves" is a more 
elaborate ballad, richly colored in its 
harmony, and with a depth of feeling 
that deepens as its lyric melody moves 
to its impressive ending. It is a beauti- 
ful lyric ballad. "Krishna" and "Dear 
Little Hut by the Rice Fields" — -the 
words from "India's Love Lyrics" by 
Lawrence Hope — ■ are full of tenderness 
and wistful yearning, and are utterly 
unaffected in their note of Orientalism, 
unlike mostof theOriental songsettings 
of to-day. Miss Branscombe's songs 
well deserve the popularity they have 
won, and their frequent appearance 
upon the programs of such artists as 
Madame Nordica, David Bispham, 
Herbert Witherspoon, George Hamlin, 
and others, as they are among the best 
that America has produced. 

Another composer of unique indi- 
viduality is Clayton Thomas (Mrs. 
George L. Cade in private life). Who 
does not know her famous "Japanese 
Love Song"? Mrs. Cade has an apt 
faculty for sympathetically reproduc- 
ing the local color and atmosphere of 
Japanese music. This is most vividly 
realized when she appears in Japanese 
costume in her latest work, a Japanese 
Song Cycle, "Matsuris" (" Our Festal 
Days"), consisting of a Prelude, 


"Cherry-Blossom Fete," "Summer in 
Kyoto," "Feast of Lanterns," "Feast 
of Dolls," "Autumn Song," and "Im- 
perial Chrysanthemum." Mrs. Cade 
has a quaint sympathy with quaintly 
unusual texts, — texts that could 
easily make an appeal to children, 
though neither the texts nor her treat- 
ment of them make them at all limited 
to this use; however, there does seem 
to be a most logical connection between 
her choice of such texts and her sym- 
pathy with the simplicity that char- 
acterizes the mono-mood of Japanese 
poetry. "Summer in Kyoto" is full 
of charm. 

"If I were a little Child again" and 
"When Cherries grow on Apple Trees" 
in their attractive playfulness are as 
satisfactory for encore songs as they 
are interesting for children. The mel- 
ody is tuneful and the words are full 
of fun. The "Hammock Song" is 
most fittingly treated to a peaceful and 
languorous melody and a swaying and 
soothing accompaniment. "The Song 
of the Egyptian Princess" is one of the 
most satisfactory of American songs. 
It is full of spirit and feeling, and it 
has that fluency of melody and har- 
mony that characterize all of Mrs. 
Cade's work. It is this quality that 
makes her so thoroughly dependable. 
No work has ever come from her pen 
that is not thoroughly tuneful and 
singable, sympathetic in treatment and 
utterly without concern to produce the 
queer and strained harmonic gyrations 
which seems to be the only concern of 
too many of our "moderns." It is a 
logical sense of the fitness of things 
that makes Mrs. Cade's compositions 
so unfailing and so reliable. "Birds 
are Singing" is as attractive a waltz 
song as has been written by any 
American. It is full of the joyous- 
ness of spring and full of dash and 

Margaret Ruthven Lang is one of 
the most musicianly and poetic of 
modern song composers. We have 
had no American composer whose 
gift for melody is of a higher order, 
nor have we had one with whom the 

sensing of the realer poetic beauty 
has been more keenly sought and 
realized. Sympathetic musical ex- 
pression of the subtle poetic beauty 
of the words is Miss Lang's constant 
aim. I do not know of any modern 
song that is a more perfect moment of 
genuine art than "A Song of the Span- 
ish Gypsies," — one of her latest com- 
positions. The words were trans- 
lated from the Spanish. 

Three lines only, but they are out of 
the soul of things, and Miss Lang has 
caught their vision so completely for 
us that it is the stroke of a master 
hand and of the best that any nation 
has ever produced. The song is 
written for alto or baritone. 

"A Garden is a Lovesome Thing," 
for alto or baritone, is another of her 
recent compositions. "Snowflakes" 
(poem by John Vance Cheney) 
seems fraught with the very essence 
of their beauty and of their feathery 
frostiness. The poem "There would 
I be" is also by John Vance Cheney. 
These two songs are for soprano or 

It is more than the sympathy of sen- 
sitive imagination that Miss Lang has 
lent these words, it is the touch of the 
mystic in her which gives all of her 
later things an irresistible force, a 
completeness, a consummate finish 
that means the greater artist, the 
sympathy of a superior intelligence. 
Miss Lang has never written any- 
thing that has not commanded an 
audience among musicians. Many of 
her things are enormously popular. 
Her church "Te Deum" is one of 
the finest Te Deums ever written. 
It is of the very spirit of the church 
and of that same intelligence in its 
beauty that always marks her work 
as the work of one of mystic faith, of 
reverent exaltation, the work of a de- 
vout listener to the spiritual beauties 
of nature and of emotion. If I were 
to sum up Miss Lang's achievement, 
the spirit of her work, I would say that 
it is of that beauty that comes alone 
from faith, from genius and from de- 

Biographical Sketch of 
Zadoc Long 


ZADOC LONG was born in 
Middleboro, Mass., July 28, 
1800. He was descended 
from the Pilgrim stock of 
1620, though his surname came from 
a grandfather, Miles Long, who came 
from North Carolina to Plymouth, 
Mass., and there married a descendant 
of Thomas Clark, who came to Plym- 
outh in the autumn of 1623. On 
the maternal side, Zadoc was de- 
scended from three of the Mayflower 
Pilgrims, Bradford, Brewster, and 

Zadoc's father, Thomas Long, a 
native of Plymouth, was often in sum- 
mer time employed on board fishing 
vessels, then lived on a farm in Middle- 
boro and also made shoes. In 1860 
the family moved to Buckfield, going 
by sloop to Salem and thence overland 
by team to Buckfield. Zadoc often 
described the arrival at the foot of 
North Hill, up which he and his brother 
Tom ran, stopping now and then to 
pick the thistles from their bare feet. 
At the top were the house and farm 
now owned by his son, John D. Long. 
Here Zadoc, until he was fourteen, 
helped hisfather on thefarm. Thehard- 
ships of that pioneer time were severe, 
the living of the large family poor and 
simple, the firewood often taken in the 
morning from the snow that had 
covered it overnight. 

At fourteen the boy broke down with 
a running sore on his leg, a part of the 
bone of which was removed. At fif- 
teen he attempted to learn shoemak- 
ing and turned his leisure to study. He 
was soon convinced of the importance, 
whatever a man's position in life, of an 
education. He went to a woman's 
school in the summer and to Hebron 
Academy for a few weeks in the fall. 
His board there was paid in shoemak- 
ing. Afterwards, in 1850, he wrote a 


rhyming letter to his son John, then at 
that Academy, describing his own very 
different experience there: 

"How I got up before 'twas light 
And snuffed my candle late at night, 
And toiled and studied to surpass 
The smartest scholar in my class; 
Wrote composition like a sage, 
And spoke my piece on the stage; 
Five hundred lines in Virgil read 
In one day on a wager laid. 
How I was poor and lame and lean, 
Wore homespun clothes of bottle green, 
Your grandpa's wedding trousers lined, 
Turned inside out and patched behind, 
My brother Tom's waistcoat of blue 
Three summers after it was new, 
And how I traveled to recite 
A mile at morning and at night, 
Because I could not then afford 
To pay the price of nearer hoard, 
Or people nearer did not choose 
To take their pay in making shoes. 
This is not poetry, but better, 
The simple truth, John, every letter, 
Yet I was counted bright, you see, John, 
When I attended school at Hebron." 

In his diary he says: "Summer 
of 1816 attended Buckfield Gram- 
mar School under the tuition of Charles 
Mongride. Boarded with Henry Far- 
well, whom I have reason to remember 
with gratitude for his assistance in my 
education. That winter taught school 
in the district where my father lived, — 
a great undertaking for one in my cir- 
cumstances, a mere boy obliged to 
walk on my lame leg. Succeeded how- 
ever, and my school was commended by 
the committee as the best in town. 
Summer of 1817 unable to do anything. 
Attended school at Hebron a few weeks. 
Kept a private school in the fall at 
Buckfield. Summer and fall of 1818 
instructed a private school in Buck- 
field six months, and in the winter 
taught school in the west part of the 
town. Had now nearly fitted myself 
to enter college and was ambitious to 
go, but sickness and poverty were in- 
surmountable obstacles. Spring of 



1819 let myself clerk in Stephen Phelps' 
store at Buckfield till I should be 
twenty-one years old at something more 
than $100 a year. About three months 
before the end of my term was attacked 
with another bone sore upon the leg 
which had till then been sound. Was 
carried to my father's and confined 
five months before any hope was had 
of my recovery. Had several surgical 
operations. The pain was excruciat- 
ing and I was reduced to a living skele- 
ton. I expected I should die and pre- 
pared to take leave of the world. The 
evidence of its being well with me after 
death was not so clear and satisfactory 
as I desired it to be. I lacked faith in 
the immortality of the soul. I wanted 
to raise the curtain between time and 
eternity that I might see more clearly 
the things beyond this life. This sick- 
ness was a sore disappointment to me. 
I had arrived at that age when life's 
prospects are brightest. By rigid 
economy had saved from my earnings 
about $200. I was dreaming of honors 
and pleasures to come when the hand of 
affliction waked me to the vanity of all 
earthly hopes. While in the store I 
devoted some leisure time to study and 
recited lessons in Greek to Mr. Moses 
Emery, preceptor of Buckfield Acad- 
emy. There I first saw and became 
acquainted with Julia T. Davis, who 
attended school at Buckfield. She 
was then about thirteen years old." 

He was married to her August 31, 
1824, at New Gloucester, which was 
her home. She was a direct descend- 
ant of Dolor Davis, who came from 
Kent, England, in 1634. He was the 
ancestor of the numerous New Eng- 
land Davis family, among whom have 
been three governors of Massachusetts; 
and his wife Margaret was a sister of 
Major Simon Willard, famous in co- 
lonial history. The correspondence of 
Zadoc with his sweetheart before mar- 
riage is copied in his journal and is 
marked by refined sentiment, but is in 
the formal style of that time. Even 
then he had formed the habit of schol- 
arly writing both in prose and poetry. 

Meantime, to quote again from his 
journal, "in the fall of 1821 recovered 

my health in some measure. It re- 
quired all the property I possessed to 
defray the expenses of my sickness. 
Infirm and moneyless, my chance in 
the world was not very fortunate, but 
my ambition was good. Was able to 
take charge of a school in the winter. 
In the spring of 1822 taught the district 
school. April, 1822, went into S. F. 
Brown's office with a view of studying 
law. Read Blackstone and quit it. 
September, 1822, commenced trading in 
Buckfield in company with Nathan 
Atwood on capital of my own of $58. 
Found it difficult to buy goods on 
credit. The traders in the village 
would not recommend me on account 
of our inexperience. September 4, 
1823, have dissolved partnership with 
Nathan Atwood, arranging to trade in 
company with Lucius Loring under the 
firm of Long & Loring. Our business 
has been more favorable than we ex- 
pected. We have saved from it about 
$400 for each. February 6, 1825, 
dissolved partnership with Lucius Lor- 
ing, having taken the whole concern, 
store, potash, goods, debts and credits, 
upon my own shoulders." 

From this time till 1838 he was en- 
gaged in trade in Buckfield, and then re- 
tired from active business. He had 
acquired a property of some $16,000. 
He lived immediately after his mar- 
riage in a house, afterward Sydenham 
Brigham's tavern, which stood where 
Benjamin Spaulding's store now stands, 
then in the house next east on the 
Turner road, and in August, 1834, he 
bought and repaired the old Domini- 
cus Record homestead, which is to-day 
occupied as a tavern, called Hotel Long, 
and for which with nine or ten acres of 
land he paid $1,000. 

He had four surviving children, two 
daughters and then two sons. He was 
devotedly attached to Buckfield, and 
never failed to sound its praises. He 
had a sincere love of nature and was de- 
voted to his garden, his books, his cor- 
respondence and especially his^ diary 
which consists of twelve largefolio vol- 
umes, written in his peculiarly fair, 
legible hand and which is a true and in- 
teresting transcript of the doings and 



life of a country village in Maine in the 
first two-thirds of the last century. He 
was deeply interested in the mainte- 
nance of good schools, giving each of his 
children the best education the time 
afforded. He helped support religious 
worship, being himself a liberal Unita- 

He was a zealous Whig in political 
convictions, although that party was 
in a great minority in the State and es- 
pecially in the town. To the village 
Lyceum and to the Portland news- 
papers he contributed articles on po- 
litical and other subjects and many 
verses, some of which appear in the 
town history. He made speeches 
at Whig conventions and was nomi- 
nated for Congress in 1838, but his 
competitor, Virgil I. Parris, a native 
of Buckfield and the Democratic can- 
didate, was elected. 

In 1840, when the whole State went 
with a rush for Harrison for President, 
Mr. Long was elected a presidential 
elector. He was for many years a 
justice of the peace, acting as a trial 
justice, and showed judicial quality in 
that office. 

In person he was tall and spare with 
fine cut features and a gentle manner. 
His elevating influence attached to him 
those who met him and made a strong 
impression on many young men who 
in after years remembered him with 
sincere respect. Especially he im- 
pressed upon his children, by conver- 
sation and by his copious letters, the 
fruits of his own life experience and 

He was recognized as one of the most 
cultivated men in the State, and though 
not accustomed to public speaking had 
rare facility in conversation and a fine 
sense of humor, with great aptness for 
anecdote. He was fond of literature, 
and accumulated the largest library in 
town, making special purchases for his 
children in order to give them a good 
range of reading. It is especially fit- 
ting that the free public library in 
Buckfield, erected by his son in 1890, 
should bear the name of Zadoc Long 
engraved on its front and stand as a 
monument to his memory. 

He was a conservative in literature as 
in politics. His favorite authors were 
Channing and Scott and Cooper, 
whose novels he read, but he never 
could join in the then rage for Dickens. 
He was a devoted follower of Webster 
and Clay, regarded the Federal Con- 
stitution and Union as sacred, and 
had in his advanced years become so 
imbued with the spirit of preserving 
their integrity that he did not accept, 
as he would have done if younger, the 
splendid uprising of the Civil War with 
its risk of bringing both Constitution 
and Union to dissolution. Hence he 
remained throughout that period not 
quite in step with the radical and more 
progressive political spirit of the day. 
His journal at the time of the defeat of 
Henry Clay for the presidency is a de- 
spairing lament over what then seemed 
to him and many others the approach- 
ing downfall of our democratic system. 
Happily the world moves on its onward 
and upward course in spite of convul- 
sions that now and then make the phi- 
losopher anxious but soon give place 
again to order and progress. 

Mr. Long's home in the center of the 
village, shaded by great elms and 
maples, most of which he had planted, 
and bordering on his garden and on 
the beautiful field which he loved and 
which had not yet been cut in twain by 
the unsightly railroad embankment, 
was the welcome resort of neighbors 
and friends. It was an idyllic home. 
Some can yet recall the great spice 
apple tree near it, — now gone like him- 
self, — under which in summer days 
he sat with a son or a neighbor or 
guest keeping him company, and near 
which in winter lay twenty cords of 
hard wood waiting to be cut and fitted 
for the fire and then piled by his hand 
neatly in the neighboring shed, and the 
chips gathered for kindling. Ah, happy 

His children, Julia Davis, Persis 
Seaver, Zadoc, Junior, and John Davis, 
all left the paternal nest, the two 
daughters marrying and settling in 
Massachusetts, the two sons both seek- 
ing their fortune in that State. His 
beloved wife died September 19, 1869. 




Then the fire on the old family hearth 
went out, and in his old age, his heart 
breaking with all its sad changes, he 
also went back to the State of his na- 
tivity, living a year with his son John 
in Hingham, Mass., and then with his 

daughter, Mrs. Nelson D. White, in 
Winchester, Mass., till he died on 
February 3, 1873. He lies with his 
wife and his son Zadoc in the family 
lot in the Buckfield village burying 

The Possibilities of Pinkie 

(Continued on page 423) 
angry. Charlotte looked at the figure 
slouched into the chair, in dirty un- 
dress, at the face that had lost all its 
beauty in hardening to this ugly mask; 
at the mother who leered at her with a 
knowing look from the cloud of smoke 
sent up by the scorching chops, — the 
evil genius of it all, — ■ disgust and 
wrath arose in the heart of this clean, 
respectable, ascetic New Englander. 

"Perhaps you won't," she replied, 
as she went out. 

At the entrance to the court she 
nearly ran against a man. They were 
both surprised. The ramshackle 
tenements of the court were deserted 
save for one family. Pinkie's parting 
remark sharpened Charlotte's curi- 
osity. The man's coat, even under 
its coating of snow, showed white 
streaks that indicated a worker in 
plaster. He was slim but hardly as 
tall as Charlotte. The dark eyes 
and hair, the dusky skin, some- 
thing in the setting of the head re- 
called the proud pose of those Tuscan 
princes pictured by Benozzo in that 
stately procession of past splendors 
that wends its silent way around the 
walls of the Riccardi Palace. No Irish 
youth could suddenly recall that 
vision of Tuscan sunlight in dingy, 
storm-swept Linden Court. Could it 
be that Pinkie was "keepin' comp'ny 
with a Dago," despite the scorn she 
had always shown for the race? 

Charlotte's anger disappeared in 
fear lest he should find the girl as she 
had left her. Woman's instinct made 
her wish to run back with a warning 
and she half turned, blocking his path. 
As she did so she saw a head disappear 
from a window. Ellen, watching the 

departing, had seen the coming guest 
and hastened to perform the sisterly 

To the surprise of the otheroccupants 
of the car, who found nothing hilarious 
in its chill atmosphere, Charlotte sud- 
denly burst into half-hysterical laugh- 
ter. Tired, cold, hungry, discouraged 
as she was, she could but laugh at the 
way in which nature had outwitted 
and outdone her in the search for a 
vocation for Pinkie. 

In May she met Patsy, loafing in the 
sunshine at the entrance to the Avenue, 
evidently out of the "autermerbil 

"Pinkie's married, Miss Merrydew. 
She's gone to live with his folks in 
Orange Court." 

He volunteered the information with 
malicious pleasure, expecting to sur- 
prise and annoy Charlotte. Between 
Pinkie and Patsy war was constant 
in the home. Outside the girl was 
always ready in defense of her brother. 
It was "my Patsy" as it was "my 
dad," "my ma," and "my Ellen." 
Loyalty was a guiding star in the de- 
velopment of this tempestuous nature. 

"Whom did she marry, Patsy, and 
when? Why didn't she let me know?" 

"He's a Dago and makes images like 
they have in church. She calls him a 
'sculpture.' " 

"How do you like your new brother- 

"He's too classey for me and ma. 
Dad goes to see 'em every Sunday and 

" Could you show me where she lives ? 
I'd like to see Pinkie." 

"Sure," replied Patsy, straightening 
his coat and pulling his soft cap for- 
ward to a more dignified angle. 



He piloted Charlotte past row upon 
row of liquor shops. The barroom 
loafers stared. Some of them knew 
Patsy. He gave them no chance to 
speak, but trudged on ahead of Char- 
lotte as if shy of being with her in the 
street. Through streets of towering 
factories they passed and came at last 
to the winding ways of that oldest 
quarter of the town, a quarter fash- 
ionable not quite a century ago. 
Fashion departed before shops and 
boarding houses. Then came the in- 
vasions of the immigrants. Irish 
pushed American to south and west; 
Jew drove out Irish; Italian dis- 
placed Jew. A few conservative New 
Englanders clung to the homes of 
happier days, resisted the invading 
foreigner, refused to be uprooted from 
their birthright. Perhaps the last to 
go was an old friend of Charlotte's 
grandmother, who lived amid beautiful 
relics and memories, behind doors 
closed and barred against the teeming 
multitude of foreigners, crowded into 
the homes of old neighbors, filling the 
street with strange gabble, night and 
day. When, at last, death left the 
house untenanted, it fell into the 
hands of a wealthy Italian who trans- 
formed its spacious parlors into four 
apartments, each sufficing for the 
needs of a family. 

Pinkie sat on the steps of her 
father-in-law's house, surrounded by a 
dozen dark-eyed girls of varying age, 
to whom she was relating one of her 
loved fairy tales. They were so ab- 
sorbed that Charlotte's approach was 
not noticed. Patsy turned back when 
he had pointed to the house. The 
voice that repeated the old but ever 
fascinating tale seemed to Charlotte 
to have lost some of its shrillness. 

"Her lovely dress turned all to 
rags, but her glass shoe fell off on the 
palace steps" (a little brown hand 
reached out to caress the toe of Pinkie's 
worn satin slipper, large for Cinderella, 
not suggesting splendor), "and the 
prince found it. Why! Miss Char- 

The girl gave a little gasp. She 
flushed deeply and tears shone on the 

blue eyes. The little girls returned 
from fairyland to stare at the new 
sister-in-law's friend. 

"The fairy godmother told Cinder- 
ella that she would help her no more 
if she stayed out after midnight, but 
she did, after all. Pinkie will tell you 
the end of the story in a few moments 
when I am gone." Charlotte held 
their attention for a moment that 
Pinkie might recover her self-posses- 
sion. She saw that her coming had 
touched the girl keenly. She seemed 
pleased that the old friend, whose 
guidance she had refused, had 
cared to hunt her out in her new 

"They're his sisters, most of them," 
she explained. "There's twelve in 
all. Some's boys." 

"You are living with them, Pinkie? 
Are they good to you? Do you like 
them?" asked Charlotte. 

"Sure, they're just dippy about me. 
My mother-in-law's awful good to me. 
I help her with the work an' she's 
goin' to show me about makin' the 
clothes. You know." 

"Why didn't you tell me you were 
going to be married?" 

"Guess I didn't know it myself, till 
it was done. 'Twas way back in 
November at the Justice of Peace. 
It's only two months since we was mar- 
ried in church. I didn't tell dad nor 
no one for a long time." 

"And your husband's name?" 
queried Charlotte. 

"Sultore, Guiseppe Sultore, an' 
that's what he does in Italian. He's 
workin' with his father an' he makes 
good money. Say, Miss Charlotte, he's 
makin' a bust of me, my head, you 
know. He likes my hair this way, do 

The pompadour had disappeared 
and the golden hair waved back softly 
to a coil in the neck. Clad in a blue 
cotton wrapper, that hardly corre- 
sponded with the elegance of the satin 
slippers, but revealed the white throat 
and neck, the girl looked very beauti- 
ful. Her expression had softened and 
grown womanly. She seemed sur- 
prised but happy to find herself mar- 



ried. Apparently her blond beauty 
and ready wit made her acceptable 
to her husband's family. 

As she wended her way back through 
the winding streets of the old town, 
Charlotte mused upon her seemingly 
unprofitable efforts. The "better 
chance" that she had sought had 
ever been beyond Pinkie's possibilities. 
The girl had found for herself the most 
suitable work, and in accepting the 
vocation for which nature intended 
her had sought no counsel from her 
distant-minded friend. In that dis- 
tant-mindedness Charlotte recognized 
her weakness as a vocational guide. It 
seemed to her that the mist of inter- 

pretation, which enwraps each human 
soul and shuts it from any clear vision 
of another's life, thickened to a blind- 
ing cloud when the path pursued by 
that other life was as distant from its 
own as Pinkie's path from hers. Yet 
somehow, through this cloud, guided 
by love rather than wisdom, she had 
groped toward Pinkie's distant way 
and with friendly clasp had helped 
the girl past the worst pitfalls in her 
temptation-strewn path. In so far 
as she had attempted guidance she 
seemed to have failed. In so far as 
she had held herself ready to give the 
sympathy and love of a friend she 
seemed to have succeeded. 

The Guardian 



What was she that she should dream 
such dreams? She sobbed until ex- 
hausted, and went to sleep with her 
head still buried in the wet pillow. 

The worst of it was, as she realized 
when she came to set the table for 
breakfast in the morning, that the 
darned pillow-case was all wrinkled. 
It made such a shabby-looking table- 
cloth that she couldn't use it. She 
took one of her clean handkerchiefs, 
which she had ironed on the mirror 
that night, and spread it at 'Gene's 
place. She herself would eat off the 
bare wood. But she didn't mind that. 
She didn't care whether she ate or not 
this morning, but she wanted to make 
this last meal they were to have to- 
gether as shipshape as possible for him. 

While she was waiting for him to 
come in, she packed her dress-suit case. 
This didn't take her long. The stove 
and the dishes she would leave. He 
could sell them. She folded up her few 
clothes with her shabby waitress' uni- 
form and a clean white apron on top. 
Then she shoved the case under the 
*Begun in the February number. 


bed where he couldn't see it. She 
didn't know how much he would mind 
her going, but he might as well have 
his breakfast in peace anyway. 

He came in heavy as usual from his 
deep sleep. 

"Mornin', Bella," he greeted her. 

She turned red at the sight of him, 
but evidently he didn't remember 
the episode of last night. At first she 
was inclined to resent this, but on 
second thought she realized that this, 
after all, was better. It made things 
more confortable all round. 

"Mornin', 'Gene," she answered 

He glanced out the window to see 
what the weather was, and in what 
direction the wind lay. 

"Fair an' th' wind nor' west," he 

With a natural enough desire to 
please him, she had discovered his 
weakness for being considered a real 
sailor and catered to this little van- 

"Smooth sea to-day, 'Gene?" 

"A leetle choppy," he opined, 
"prob'ly a good ground swell outside 
the harbor." 

Copyright, 1912, Small, Maynard & Co. 



"I'm glad your ship don't haveter 
butt into that," she said. 

"Wouldn't mind none if she was 
built fer it," he declared. 

"I was lookin' at the Thomas R. 
Sullivan yesterday," she said. "She 
ain't one, two, three with th' Michael 

"The Sullivan ain't nothin' but an 
old tub," he answered. "We can beat 
her a boat's length across the harbor 
any day." 

"I betcher," she answered. "There's 
somethin' swell erbout the Regan." 

He took his place at the table. She 
had warmed over the beef stew he had 
so enjoyed last night. For his lunch- 
eon she had prepared a little surprise 
in the shape of an apple pie. It was 
baker's pie, to be sure, but she knew 
he would like it. She had hidden it in 
the bottom of the tin lunch box she 
bought for him the other day. With it 
she had packed away a piece of cheese, 
three or four sandwiches, and a couple 
of doughnuts. On top of this she 
had another surprise — ■ a five-cent 
cigar. She was glad that these extra 
attentions happened to come on the 
day she was leaving. 

He ate his breakfast with a relish. 
When he had finished, he asked his 
usual question: 

"What ye goin' to do to-day?" 

"I dunno," she answered. 

He had a little surprise of his own. 

"Better come down this afternoon 
and ride with me," he suggested. 

"Ride with you? On the boat?" 

He nodded as grandly as though he 
were both owner and captain. 

She shook her head. 

"We can't stand the price, 'Gene." 

"I'll tend to that," he answered. 
"O'Toole said he'd pass ye in." 

"Pass me in? Then I could ride all 
th' afternoon? Jus' as long as I 

He nodded. This opportunity was 
a sore temptation. During this last 
week she had spent half her time 
sitting in the park watching the old 
ark steam back and forth, straining 
her eyes for a glimpse of 'Gene. A 
return trip cost only four cents, but 

four cents would buy almost* half a 
dozen doughnuts for him, so she had 
forced herself to remain content on 
shore. It was a cruel fate which 
gave her this chance at just this time. 
But if she were going she might as 
well go at once. She wouldn't dare 
risk another evening here with him, 
especially after such a holiday ex- 
cursion as that. It would make it 
twice as hard to leave. 

she answered. "I guess I 


" 'Fraid o' bein' seasick?" he de- 
manded with the jesting wink of your 
tried sailor. 

She smiled to herself. He didn't 
remember that she had been going 
back and forth on that Ferry for 
several years before she met him. 
Still she did not propose to destroy 
the flavor of his little joke. She 
made up a face. 

"I ain't takin' no chances," she re- 

" Oh, come 'long," he urged. " Ye'll 
get used to it in a trip or two." 

"Dry land's good 'nuff for mine," 
she replied, in order to prolong his 
relish of the situation. 

He laughed heartily. 

"Never yet seed a woman who 
waren't skeered of th' water," he 

He rose and reached for his lunch 

"Ye'd better come," he insisted, as 
she handed it to him. 

She shook her head. He was sur- 
prised at her stubbornness. 

"'Gene," she said slowly, "I'm 
goneter vamoose." 

He could hardly believe his ears. 

"You? You meanter say you're 

"Right, th' first time," she nodded. 

Instead of standing there before 
him she returned to the table and in as 
matter-of-fact a fashion as possible 
began to clear away the dishes. 

"I'll clean house for yer. An' I'll 
leave all these cookin' things in your 
room. Maybe you'll get yer own 

He strode towards her. 



"Be you crazy, Bella?" he ex- 

"I dunno. Maybe I am. But I'll 
bet a dollar to a lead nickel I'd be 
headed for the daffy house sure if I 
didn't go." 

"What ye mean?" he stammered. 

It was long since anything had so 
confused him as this possibility of her 
leaving. He had thought her a fix- 
ture. The bottom seemed to drop 
out of everything. He felt already 
the cold curse of city loneliness. 

"You're allers askin' what I means 
when I puts it to you straight," she 

She stopped her work and faced him. 

"You don't need a dictionary to 
get at what I mean when I talks to 
you, 'Gene." 

"But ye was all right yesterday. 
What ye quittin' for?" 

" 'Cause I'm sick o' loafin', for one 
thing," she answered. 

"S'posin' ye do go to work, can't 
ye stay here jus' the same?" 

"No," she answered. 

She lowered her eyes and continued 
her household duties. 

He thought rapidly for a moment. 
He was half frightened and half irri- 
tated. He didn't like these inter- 
ruptions in his life when things were 
going so smoothly. He put down his 
lunch-box and watched her in silence. 
He saw her grow uneasy under his 
gaze. She kept her back to him as 
much as possible. 

"Ye gen'rally say what ye mean," 
he said, "but this time thar's suthin' 
more ye ain't told." 

"Gee, but you're the wizard," she 
answered lightly. 

"What is it?" he demanded. 

She raised her head again at this. 

"Run along an' sell yer papers, 

"I won't till ye tell me." 

"Then you'll stay there till Hell 
freezes over." 

"No, I won't." 

He was growing imperious. He ap- 
proached her and laid his big hands 
upon her shoulders. 

"Now, Bella — what's ailin' ye?" 

"Nothin'," she answered mildly. 

"What ye quittin' for?" 

"'Cause — 'cause — " she felt piti- 
fully weak under the pressure of his 
grip. " 'Cause — Oh, 'Gene, we've 
been good pals. Now don't go for to 
spoil it all." 

"You're the one who's spoilin' it," 
he answered. 

"No! no!" she replied breathlessly. 
"That's why I've gotter go — to keep 
it from spoilin'!" 

"Look up," he ordered. 

She tried to squirm free. 


"I don't wanter." 

"Look u'p." 

"I — I—" 

She looked up. For a moment he 
stared into her brown eyes. Then he 

"You aren't goin'," he said. 

She felt herself weakening. 

"You aren't goin'," he repeated. 

"What you mean?" she asked with 
a startled cry. 

"Who's talkin' English now?" 

" But I've gotter go. Oh, my Gawd, 
I've gotter go right off. " 

He smiled again, showing his white 
irregular teeth. He was very confi- 
dent now. 

"Ye'll stay right here an' we won't 
need but one room, I reckon." 

In a frenzy she fought him. He 
held her without effort. 

"Easy, easy," he warned. "Leave 
'nuff of me to get to a Justice of th' 

She ceased her struggling and, grip- 
ping his two arms like a drowning 
woman, she met his eyes. 

" 'Gene, " she gasped, "you mean — " 

"That I'm goneter marry ye whether 
ye want to or not. " 

She sank to the floor. He picked 
her up and held her lips to his lips. 


A Glimpse of Paradise 

HEN Nat regained conscious- 
ness enough to know or 
care where he was, he found 
himself in a very wide four- 



posted bed in a very large room. 
He recognized neither the bed nor the 
room. Near the bed stood a table 
covered with bottles. By the slant of 
the sun-rays flooding in beneath the 
half-drawn curtains he judged that it 
was well into the morning. He started 
to rise, but he fell back weakly with- 
out being able even to make his el- 
bow. This was certainly a peculiar 
state of affairs for one who had never 
been sick in his life. He tried to figure 
it out, and in the process fell asleep 
once more. 

When he awoke for the second time, 
his head was clearer, but he was not 
even then fully prepared for the vision 
which greeted his eyes. Within an 
arm's length of him stood Julie. She 
was dressed in white muslin and wore 
no hat. She seemed as much at home 
in this strange room as though she be- 
longed here. She appeared to be 
startled at sight of his wide-open eyes; 
perhaps she was afraid. He closed 
them again. Then he felt that she 
had crept still nearer to him. He 
heard her voice — a trembling whisper: 


"That you, Julie?" he asked. 

He felt her warm fingers upon his 

"Nat, Nat, Nat," she repeated in 
excited wonder. 

He opened his eyes once more. She 
was bending over him, her sweet face 
alight with glad greeting. He couldn't 
understand it. He remembered dimly, 
like some half-forgotten nightmare, 
that the last time, whenever that was, 
wherever it was, she had been afraid of 
him. He stared about the room in an 
attempt to connect the past with the 

"Where am I, Julie?" 

"You're here, Nat," she answered 

That sounded like an indisputable 
statement, but he would have been 
inclined to believe her if she had said he 
wasn't. Admitting, however, that she 
was correct, was "Here" some nook 
in paradise or a corner in some more 
matter-of-fact locality ? On the whole, 
in spite of her presence, he was in- 

clined to accept the latter view. He 
looked to her for further information. 
He was too weak even to think for 

"Don't — don't you remember, 
Nat?" she asked, her warm fingers 
still resting on his. 

"I remember somethin'. I had a 
cold and you were skeered." 

She pressed his hand. 

"Please — please don't remember 
that," she pleaded. 

"And you—" 

She placed her fingers hurriedly over 
his lips. 

"The doctor said you were to re- 
main very quiet," she warned, "very, 
very quiet." 

"Who said that?" 

"Dr. Swanzey. You've been sick. 
You were brought up here to my room." 

"This — this is your room?" he 

"Yes, yes. And please don't talk 
any more. Please don't think any 

He looked about him again — this 
time in some awe. Then he closed his 

"If you could go to sleep again," 
she coaxed. 

"Will you stay here?" 

"Yes. Right by your side, Nat. 
I — I won't move." 

He didn't know whether he went on 
dreaming that she was here or whether 
she actually remained. It didn't mat- 
ter much. In either case he felt very 
drowsily content. Whenever he half 
opened his eyes, he saw either a vision 
or Julie herself. 

So an hour passed, and when the old 
doctor entered, life became more real 
but none the less pleasant. The doc- 
tor felt his pulse and took his tempera- 
ture, and with a smile nodded back to 
the waiting girl. He was a portly, 
white-bearded old man with a face 
which might have served as a model 
for a figure of "human kindness." It 
was at once ' -Tdlike and strong — the 
strength ben. 6 hidden, however, be- 
neath the beard, so that all one saw 
was the mild brown eyes that gathered 
many little wrinkles in the corners 



whenever he smiled, which was often. 
When he was through with his exami- 
nation, Nat asked him a question. 
,. "Can I get up?" 

"Up?" stormed Dr. Swanzey in re- 
ply. "If I catch you trying it, I'll 
put ye back if I have to use an axe." 

"I hate t' stay in bed with nothin' 
but a cold," objected Nat. 

"A cold? You've had pneumonia 
— that's what you've had if ye want 
to know. And if it hadn't been for 
this angel of light here — " 

The angel of light turned away so 
that Nat couldn't see her face. 

"If it hadn't been for this angel of 
light, you'd been by now where I 
couldn't do ye any good." 

"Guess I've been a lot of bother," 
Nat apologized. 

"Ye have, son — sure's thar's a 
God in Israel. Ye've skeered the tar 
out of three families — including my 
own. So the thing for you to do now 
is to lie back and keep quiet instead of 
talking about getting up. " 

"I will," Nat agreed mildly. 

"And when you're well I want to 
know just what fool thing you did to 
get such a cold. Then I want an 
affidavit swearing ye won't do it 

The angel of light was moving 
towards the door with an abruptness 
that suggested a precipitous retreat. 

"Julie," Nat called. 

She turned. 

"I s'pose you're going now." 

Dr. Swanzey looked from his patient 
to the girl and then back again to his 
patient. He saw a light in the latter's 
eyes which brought the little wrinkles 
to the corners of his own. He had 
half opened his black leather medicine 
case with a view to adding a mild 
tonic to his other prescriptions. He 
closed it again with a snap. He turned 
back to Nat. 

"Mind what I say, now; don't stir 
a toe out of that bed till I give the 

He strode towards the girl at the 
door. He bent close to her ear. 

"I prescribe for him, you — as much 
as he can stand." 

Her ears instantly became two 
pretty pink cameos. 

"Before meals and after meals," he 
added, "and just before retiring." 

He lightly patted her back, and went 
off down the stairs chuckling to him- 
self. She was sore tempted to follow 
him. In the first place she wished to 
correct his mistake; in the second place 
she knew that Nat would notice her 
scarlet ears. 

"Julie," he called. 

"Y-yes," she answered. 

"You can go." 

" It's about time for your mother and 
father to get here. Do you want me to 
watch for them to come down the 

He had forgotten for the moment 
that he had a mother and father. It 
sent his thoughts back home, and this 
gave him his connecting link between 
the past and the present. He remem- 
bered now how he had left the house 
to come down here to find Julie. 

"Do you, Nat?" she asked. 


She hurried off, and left him to re- 
trace in his mind the incident which 
led him to the top of the mountain and 
back. This girl here didn't seem like 
her who in hate and fear had fought 
to free herself from his arms. Nor did 
she seem like the schoolmarm he had 
knowwn before that. She came nearer 
to her whom, in his heart, he had taken 
into the winter woods with him — like 
her and yet different too. That was 
the wonder of Julie; she changed from 
month to month, from week to week, 
and yet she remained always the same. 
She was always Julie. Through all the 
changes the central figure remained 
fixed; through all the changes he knew 
her better, loved her better. 

In the afternoon his father and mother 
came and spent an hour with him. He 
was glad to see them, but the effort of 
talking left him exhausted. He drowsed 
until night after this, and then fell into a 
deep sleep which lasted until morning. 

He awoke so refreshed that when 
Silas Moulton came up to see him be- 
fore breakfast he had already made his 
plans for going home. But the former 



checked him before he had spoken a 
dozen words. He was a lean, wiry 
little man, with a keen face, and eyes 
as black as Julie's. 

"You don't leave this house till 
you're sound as a nut, my boy," he an- 
nounced with decision. 

" I'm makin' a lot of bother," said 

" So you are, so you are. I reckon 
if you didn't I'd never forgive you. 
Your father went to enough bother for 
me once to save my life, and I've never 
yet had a chance to pay him back." 

Nat remembered the story. It was 
after the battle of Bull Run. His 
father, though wounded himself, had 
shouldered his injured comrade and 
carried him off the field, where he un- 
doubtedly would have been trampled 
to death. Nat was glad enough to 
let this be an excuse for his further 
stay, although he knew well enough 
none was needed. There wasn't a 
more hospitable man in St. Croix than 
Silas Moulton. 

A little later Julie herself came in 
with his breakfast. She took away his 
breath, she looked so daintily fresh, 
so wonderfully beautiful. Clad in a 
blue and white checked calico dress, 
with a snow-white apron over this, her 
eyes clear as morning stars and her 
cheeks a dark crimson, her black 
hair marvelously neat and silken, he 
found himself stammering when he 
tried to say merely good morning. She 
was a picture a man needed his full 
strength to gaze upon steadily. 

She placed the tray on a table and 
helped him to sit up. While she bol- 
stered the big pillows behind his back 
she was so sweetly near to him that his 
white face suddenly flamed into a 
scarlet as brilliant as hers. Then she 
placed the tray in his lap with the in- 
junction that he must eat every mouth- 

'"Cause look at your arm," she con- 

He looked at his arm. It did look 
small, but it felt still smaller. He 
could barely raise it. 

"You must get strong again just as 
soon as ever you can. I hardly 

{To be 

know you, Nat — when you're not 

"I'll be all right in a day or two," 
he answered. 

But he knew that as soon as he was 
he must leave her; so, after all, he had 
no great ambition in the matter. She 
stood over him until he drank his glass 
of milk and ate most of the egg on toast 
with a taste or two of jelly. Then 
she sat on the foot of the bed and 
chattered about one thing and another, 
while he listened, not to what she 
said, but to the music of her voice. 
Several times she caught him doing 
nothing else but that. She then 
stopped abruptly with a chiding. 


Whereupon he dutifully swallowed 
another mouthful. He could hardly 
be blamed for not caring to eat during 
his first hour or two in this new world 
to which he had awakened. And it 
was a new world. Everything was 
intensified; the sun was brighter and 
warmer than he had ever known it; 
the air was fresher and sweeter; all 
colors were keener and more brilliant. 
In the midst of it she stood out like a 
new creation. 

So for a week Nat lived lazily, drow- 
sily, deliciously in this humble para- 
dise. Julie flitted in and out between 
the dawn and the twilight and was very 
good to him. While she was in the 
room he gave himself up completely 
to the present, and during the inter- 
vals she was out of sight he dreamed 
into the future. Out of the latter two 
ambitions slowly crystalized. One of 
these was very practicable; he meant 
next winter to conduct his own lum- 
ber operations on Eagle. Last year 
Judge Martin had offered him an op- 
tion on some standing pine, and had 
agreed to take in payment his notes 
running to the end of the logging sea- 
son. He had shaken his head. He 
was not then on his own feet. But 
now — as soon as he was strong enough 
to get out he meant to see the judge. 
The other scheme had been until now 
nothing but a wild fancy. It was not 
based on business or sense. But he 
determined none the less to fulfill it. 

New England Magazine 





FRONTISPIECE — America's Art Treasures — Por 







THE GUARDIAN — A Serial. Chapter XVII 





Sir Joshua Reynolds 

Grace Agnes Thompson 
Mary Denson Pretlow 
Emma R. Goodwin 
Frederick Orin Bartlett 
Charles L. Hincke 
Ada A. Brewster 

Ethel Syford 
Winthrop Packard . 






Entered at Boston Post Office as second-class matter. Copyright, 1910, by New England Maga- 
zine Co., $1 .75 A YEAR. Foreign Postage, seventy-five cents additional. 15 CENTS A NUMBER 

Pope Building, 221 Columbus Ave*, Boston, Massachusetts 

^Beautiful V^Cew England 

Studies of the Distinctive Features 
of New England Landscape 

The Mill Pond 

USE does not necessarily destroy 
beauty. The rural landscape of 
New England owes much to its 
minor waterways, lying in 
golden-brown shadows among the rocks, 
shadows that our Boston artist, Mr. 
John Enneking, knows so well and in- 
terprets so exquisitely. Nor could it be 
unworthy of his or another's art to give 
us the spirit and tone of the prisoned 
waters. They do not tumble among the 
boulders, but brim their narrow valleys 
like a full cup. The hills and trees grow 
downward into an inverted sky, and when 
winter frosts and snow play fairy pranks 
over the rough rocks and scattered 
branches and fringe the water with iri- 
descent crystal, the sense of unreality is 
deepened. It is like a Japanese print — 
a playground for the imagination in its 
less serious moods. Nor is the beauty 
of these industrialized waterways with- 
out its message of comfort to those who 
fear for the absorption of all natural 
beauty in the triumphs of commerce. 
Nature, untroubled, accepts the work 
of man and seizes upon its vantage points 
for the display of her own masterpieces. 
Fern and moss and leaning bough soon 
transform masonry and flash-boards, and 
the world of beauty comes into its own. 

;.'v>>- : '"' 

Photograph by J. Maxwell Clark 


■ > ■ ",* <*" .■ ■■ 



Portrait of a Lady by Sir Joshua Reynolds 

New England Magazine 



Number 4 

A New Opportunity for Paternalism 

A PUBLIC commission for the 
protection of the innocent 
rich seems to be called for as 
the next step in paternal 
government. It is a disgrace to our 
civilization that these people should 
be left to think for themselves while 
Miss Jane Addams and other "pro- 
gressive" intellects are planning out 
the lives of all ordinary people from the 
pre-cradle to the post-mortem stages of 
existence. The ill effects of this cruel 
neglect of a peculiarly unprotected 
class are already apparent. 

This alleged " De Luxe Book swindle " 
could very easily have been prevented 
by a state Commission on the Fool 
and His Money. Such a commission 
might make of no effect the ancient 
law expressed in a reputed "saying 
of Jesus" concerning ill-garnered 
gold — "From folly it has come and 
unto folly it shall return." 

There could be an official, let us say 
an actuarial, determination of the 
proportion of income that might be 
spent in folly — a limitation to not 
more than nine-tenths of incomes in 
excess of one hundred thousand 
dollars per annum and smaller per- 
centages of smaller incomes. The 
rich man's first thought is for spurious 
art treasures, and his second for De 
Luxe editions. Books intended to be 
read are only printed for the poor. 
No man with an income in excess of 
thirty thousand dollars per annum 
buys a book that can be read with 
satisfaction. The demand creates a 
supply. The desire to pass on a gold- 

brick is also an element perennially 
calling for the manufacture of that 
famous product in prodigious quan- 
tities. The most poignant and pros- 
trating sorrow of many of the victims 
of the present front-page swindle is 
that the expose came before they could 
pass on the monumental hoax to 
others. It is impossible to eliminate 
these things, therefore a commission 
should be appointed limiting for each 
person the percentage of his income 
to be thus expended, without attempt- 
ing to put an end to a practice that 
affords the greatest known amount of 
human enjoyment. We should not 
go gunning for all of the bluebirds 
of happiness. Think of the gloom on 
the "Gold Coast" in Cambridge if no 
"friend" should appear to guide the 
coin-full and wit-empty freshman to 
"a little shop on a back street" where 
there were still a few bottles of fine 
old Madeira (really some of the same 
lot that Luther received from the 
Pope) at five hundred dollars a 
bottle. No one objects to that, and a 
sensible public is not much coucerned 
over the annual purchase of books at 
$50.00 a volume when much better ones 
can be had for a dollar and a half. It 
is only when the price goes up to thirty 
or forty thousand dollars that we really 
sit up and take notice. 

As a time-honored and perpetual 
swindle, and in the amounts of money 
extorted, the art object has the De 
Luxe volume beaten to a frazzle. 
There has been no material change in 
the process of enhancing values since 




the game was played on poor old Rem- 

First, a man whose work is really 
meritorious is marked for the slaughter. 
He becomes persona non grata in the 
leading art stores. His fellow artists 
come to speak of him as "poor Jones." 
The art critics politely mention his 
contributions to local exhibitions, but 
make mistakes in the titles and get his 
own name wrong. He continues to 
paint, paint, paint unsalable pictures, 
and the more unsalable they become 
the better they are. For the artistic 
temperament thrives on neglect and 
poverty. By and by Jones dies. 
Then the vultures swoop down. His 
canvases are obtained at a few dollars 
each or in job lots by Swein, Pork & 
Co., the celebrated dealers in high- 
priced paintings. Then Pluckem & 
Co. buy a few of them at four hundred 
dollars apiece, and Swein, Pork & Co. 
buy an equal amount of Pluckem's 
treasures. The transaction is duly 
recorded by the public press. Silence 
for a year or two. Then Swein, 
Pork & Co. buy back their paintings for 
a thousand dollars apiece, and Pluckem 
buys back his for a like amount. 
This time the newspaper world, in re- 
cording the important sale, speak of 
the paintings as "genuine" Joneses. 
The two dealers are having such a good 
time of it that it is a shame that any 
one from outside interferes. But they 
do. The art museums usually break 
in at about the four figure and the 
millionaire collector at the five figure 
stage of the game. But alas! After a 
few years it is discovered that the 
canvases purchased (Swein, Pork & 
Co. having handled them indirectly 
through auctions and not being re- 
sponsible for the calamity) were mere 
imitations — cheap copies in fact! 
Swein, Pork & Co. cannot help it. 
Did any one suppose that genuine 
Joneses could be bought for such 
trifling sums? They have a few that 

are unquestionably genuine, but it 
will require six figures to induce them 
to part with them. In fact, they would 
rather not part with them at any price. 
But they do, and folly pays the 

Should we object? Of course not. 
If it were not for this ancient swindle 
we would have no public art museums. 
Is any one so ignorant as to suppose 
that rich men would buy paintings' 
for art museums during an artist's 
life at a few hundred or at most a 
few thousand dollars apiece? Perish 
the thought. And it works out well 
for Jones. Does any one who under- 
stands imagine that Jones would 
paint well with his rent paid up and a 
square meal under his waistcoat? 
Ask Jones. 

There is painting being done in 
Boston to-day that will be sold fifty 
years from now at prices that will 
attract the favorable attention of 
ignorant millionaires. Why should 
any one expect them to buy them to- 
day, when they can be bought at so 
much higher a price fifty years from 
now? And what would happen to 
Jones if the purchasing agent of a 
perfectly genuine millionaire collector 
should appear in his doorway wav- 
ing a check of four or five figures? 
Why, it would take him two precious 
years to fit up a studio suitable to his 
new grandeur, another year to go 
with the wife on that long-dreamed-of 
trip abroad. But why pursue so 
melancholy a possibility? The mil- 
lionaire's purchasing agent will not 
appear in Jones's door. Jones will not 
fit up an attractive studio. The 
millionaire will take the trip. Jones 
will paint unsold and unsalable 
pictures, and the fool millionaire con- 
tinue to do his buying of spurious 
Joneses of a generation back of Swein 
& Co., at prodigious prices. Our 
museums will be filled and art will 
flourish among us, as it should. 

Picture Plots 

TO the minds of most of us the 
words "moving pictures" sug- 
gest nothing but a cheap 
form of entertainment, de- 
signed particularly for those who can 
neither afford nor appreciate the 
"better" things in the show line. We 
sneer at the crowds going and coming 
from the nickeldromes and kindred 
places, although we must confess that 
we are often compelled to sit up and 
take notice at the "motion plays" 
that are presented after the acts at 
the high-class vaudeville theaters. 

That anything higher than mechan- 
ical art enters into the production of 
the films that make these "plays" 
possible we little dream, although it is 
a fact that a considerable portion of 
the literary folk of the country are 
daily taxing their imagination in 
efforts to make good films and, incident- 
ally, to enlarge their bank accounts. 
Despite the cry against motion pic- 
ture houses, the business of film pro- 
duction is progressing, and the rivalry 
among the dozen or more concerns in 
this country engaged in such work is so 
great that no expense is spared in en- 
deavors to put out superior films. 
"New ideas! new ideas!" is the con- 
stant cry, and, naturally, the manu- 
facturers turn to the literary folk for 
assistance. At least ten firms are 
buying ideas to be worked out on the 
screen, and the dearth of good ideas 
is such that a few concerns are ad- 
vertising that they will pay high prices 
for the kind of suggestions they want. 
Ideas put into workable form are 
called "scenarios," and for acceptable 
"scenarios" the advertising manu- 
facturers agree to pay from ten dollars 
to one hundred dollars. 

All of the big companies maintain 
literary departments, the business of 
which is to pass upon "scenarios" and 
work up ideas submitted. Persons of 
recognized literary ability are at the 
heads of most of these departments, 
and this fact, it is generally agreed, is 

tending more to raise the standard of 
the moving picture than all the legis- 
lation and censorship that the public 
reformers are bringing about. As to 
the writing of "picture plays," one of 
the large firms has issued a booklet, 
which contains the following: 

"That the motion picture, in recent 
years, has taken its place in the amuse- 
ment world is clearly established. 
Briefly, it bears to the stage production 
the same relation the short story bears 
to the full volume novel. It differs 
chiefly from the stage play in that no 
lines are introduced. Despite this lim- 
itation and despite the brevity and low 
price at which this entertainment is 
offered to the public, film manufac- 
turers require that their product must 
qualify with the ever ascending stand- 
ards, dramatically, artistically, and 
morally. To this end the manu- 
facturers are spending thousands of 
dollars each year to obtain the most 
skillful producers, the best dramatic 
talent, and the most effective stage 
devices in the production of the pic- 
tures. The same is true of the story 
which the picture portrays. 

"The writing of stories or plays for 
modern picture production is practi- 
cally a new profession. Writers of 
successful motion picture plays find 
their work constantly in demand and 
at good prices. The field is not 
crowded with successful authors, and 
many who are able to produce avail- 
able plays have not yet grasped the 
first principles of the moving picture 
drama, nor do they seem to have any 
inkling of what the manufacturers 
require. Many of these have the 
qualities, imagination, talent, and in- 
genuity which make for success in this 
line, some of them having won success 
in the magazine field. 

"In the writing of motion picture 
plays any one who is capable of 
evolving an interesting plot adapted 
to motion picture presentation may 

win success. 




IN the death, a few months since, 
of Williamina Paton Fleming, 
of the Harvard College Observa- 
tory, the science of astronomy 
lost one of its most patient and diligent 
workers, as well as the most efficient 
woman investigator who has yet been 
identified with this science. While 
other women engaged in astronomical 
research and discussion have merited 
distinction for their perseverance and 
painstaking interest at a time when 
the world derided woman's capacity 
for scientific comprehension, their 
work did not aid notably the progress 
of science. Mrs. Fleming has made 
contributions to astronomy that will 
be of the highest value to future 
generations of astronomers. 

Mrs. Fleming was born in Dundee, 
Scotland, in 1857, the daughter of 
Mary (Walker) and Robert Stevens. 
In those years her father owned the 
largest carving and gilding business 
in the north of Scotland, his picture 
frames and work in gold-leaf being 
widely known. He was deeply in- 
terested in photography and spent 
much of his leisure time upon experi- 
ments therein. He was the first to 
introduce the daguerreotype process 
into his city. His death, when little 
Williamina was seven years old, ended 
these researches, and his business, 
after being conducted for a time by 
Mrs. Stevens, was given up alto- 
gether. Williamina was now sent to 
the public schools of Dundee for her 
education; later, while still almost in 
childhood years, she became a "pupil 
teacher," according to a Scottish 
method of that period, and continued 
such instruction for five years in 
Broughty Ferry, a town which adjoins 
Dundee, thus learning early in life 
the lessons of independence and re- 
sponsibility. In 1877 she was married 
to James Orr Fleming of Dundee, and 
in December of the following year 

came to America. Their one child, 
Edward P. Fleming, a graduate in 
1901 of the Massachusetts Institute 
of Technology, is now engaged as 
chief metallurgist for a copper mining 
company in Chile, South America. 

The science of astronomy has passed 
through many metamorphoses during 
the twenty-four centuries since Pythag- 
oras taught his pupils the true 
theory of the sun as the center of our 
planetary system. Its latest phase 
is the astrophysical, which began early 
in the past century when Fraunhofer, 
by experimenting on light for the 
perfection of optical lenses, was led 
to the discovery of the many lines in 
the solar spectrum. This new as- 
tronomy or astrophysics seeks to 
demonstrate what the celestial bodies 
are composed of, basing its proofs upon 
the identification by Bunsen and 
Kirchoff of the lines in the spectrum 
with various terrestrial elements. All 
progress in its study has been through 
photography; not merely the imaging 
of stars as points of light, but the more 
important representation on photo- 
graphic plates of each star's prismatic 
reflection in lines of light and shade. 

It was during the experimental 
period of this new astronomical work 
that, in 1879, Mrs. Fleming came to 
the Harvard College Observatory. 
She had been in America barely a 
year. A sudden stress of her personal 
affairs compelled her to take up some 
sort of work for a livelihood. Be- 
cause she liked and understood mathe- 
matical subjects, she selected book- 
keeping and accounting, and set herself 
to the task of thorough preparation. 
In the midst of this effort it be- 
came necessary to replenish her 
small fund of money. On hearing that 
a professor at the Harvard Observa- 
tory needed the services of a coypist, 
she hastened thither, and was em- 
ployed. A little later she undertook 




some of the stellar computations. 
This work fascinated her, enlisted all 
the energy of her clear and brilliant 
mind, but not all the capacity. One 
day the professor found certain com- 
putations, marveled at the precision 
and discrimination of her mathemat- 
ical skill; and a course in astronomy, 
the development and recognition • of 
further gifts, new duties with addi- 
tional responsibilities, followed, each 
in due order. 

Thus, by such happy chance, as 
often directs into its proper channel 
the force of an unrealized genius that 

the world must not lose, was estab- 
lished in that observatory where her 
ability could be most fully utilized 
this enthusiastic and industrious young 
woman, whom astronomy was yet 
highly to honor. Mrs. Fleming's posi- 
tion at Harvard Observatory became 
permanent in 1881. At that time, 
under the direction of Professor Ed- 
ward C. Pickering, who had succeeded 
Joseph Winlock in 1877, the work of 
the observatory was divided between 
researches in photometry, or light 
measurement, by which the relative 
brightness of the stars is determined, 



4pv^it^ic fim-uM ft lZr%/£ 0-im^T (f/u4a^ frw^g^ 



and measures of their positions with 
the meridian circle. But the director 
was also shaping those plans upon 
which the enormous astrophysical 
labors of the observatory have had 
their foundations; while expanding 
the scope of the routine work, he 
adapted the mechanical plant of the 
institution to photographic operation. 
That decade was the greatest period 
of transition in the history of astron- 
omy. Since the very earliest knowl- 
edge of photography the idea of 
photographing the celestial bodies had 
been ever present with astronomers. 
Even so early as 1840, Dr. J. W. 
Draper of New York obtained a few 
photographs of the moon about an inch 
in diameter, and in 1850 Professor 
G. P. Bond of Harvard, with the help 
of Mr. J. A. Whipple, obtained photo- 
graphic impressions of Vega and Cas- 

tor. They also secured upon a daguer- 
reotype plate a picture of the moon, 
whose exhibition in London induced 
Warren de la Rue to take up the 
subject of celestial photography. Their 
work on the stars was resumed on 
glass in 1857 with good results, but 
because the collodion plates then made 
were not sufficiently sensitive to reflect 
clearly objects so distant, and such 
experiments soon lost the interest of 
mere novelty, their effort was only 
spasmodic. For some years the great 
observatories of the world directed 
all their attention to other researches. 
But Dr. Henry Draper, at his ob- 
servatory in New York, continued 
quietly to experiment. At last, in 
1872, by means of a prism placed in 
front of the lens of his 28-inch re- 
flecting telescope, he obtained the 
first successful photograph of the 



spectrum of a fixed star. Dr. Huggins, 
afterwards Sir William Huggins, of 
England, made similar photographs 
at about the same time, and to him 
many ascribe the honor of first attain- 
ment along these lines. But not 
justly, for though the light was re- 
fracted and the image of the star de- 
flected into a band, no lines were 
visible. Dr. Draper's photographs 
showed these lines, and the credit 
belongs, therefore, to him. Photog- 
raphy of stellar spectra now advanced 
rapidly, world-wide attention being 
paid to it by astronomers. In 1882 
the untimely death of Dr. Draper 
ended a career that was full of scien- 
tific promise. In 1885, Mrs. Draper, 
with the intention of seeing the work 
he had begun continued, and from 
personal interest in a subject with 
which she had become thoroughly 
familiar through long association with 
her husband in his researches, es- 
tablished at Harvard Observatory a 
department, known as the Henry 
Draper Memorial, for study and classi- 
fication of stellar spectra. 

During these important years Mrs. 
Fleming manifested a very genius for 
the task of organization. Though still 
only an assistant, the matter of putting 
into active, practical operation, eco- 
nomically and without any waste of 
time, so novel a department was due 
in large measure to her co-operation, 
her ready wit, and her excellent judg- 
ment. Since the Memorial researches 
were to be maintained by Mrs. Draper, 
it was thought fitting that a woman 
should also conduct them. Miss N. A. 
Farrar, by virtue of seniority in ob- 
servatory work, with Miss L. Winlock 
and Mrs. Fleming as assistants, first 
undertook the charge. But upon Miss 
Farrar's marriage to Mr. Charles 
Harris of California, the following 
year, the position was given to Mrs. 
Fleming. And now indeed a mighty 
field opened out before her. 

So rapidly did the work progress 
that within three years twelve as- 
sistants were required. The original 
narrow space available in the main 
building was soon outgrown; in 1893 
a fireproof brick building was con- 





structed for the storage and study of 
the Memorial photographs. As the 
art of photography developed, Harvard 
Observatory kept pace. New instru- 
ments were constantly added to the 
equipment, and ingenious devices 
fashioned to facilitate their operation. 
Not only the two principal stations, 
in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and in 
Arequipa, Peru, but various temporary 
stations, for meteorological and other 
observations, were maintained. Both 
machinery and plant (if one may speak 
in such terms on a subject that the 
average reader regards with profound 
awe) were thoroughly modernized, all 
the romantic furniture of a "temple 
of romance" made as unromantically 
serviceable and convenient as any 
new-fitted mill or factory: therein 
is new, twentieth-century romance, 
which looks forward instead of back- 
ward. It has always been the policy 
of this institution to adapt to its uses 
whatever methods and devices might 
appear in the commercial world or be 

designed by the invention of its own 
assistants that could promote its 
work, and to consider utility and 
economy before architectural display 
or mere sentiment. So that here 
simple shelters or even mounting in 
the open air have taken the place of 
costly domes; electricity, of compli- 
cated weights and clocks; automatic 
switchboards and ingenious reflecting 
mirrors in a comfortable room, of 
ladder-perch, star-gazing in the be- 
numbing gloom of winter nights. 

Such was the atmosphere in which 
Mrs. Fleming worked, which, indeed, 
she helped create. Any account of 
her work is closely interwoven with 
the welfare and progress of Harvard 
Observatory. That became her con- 
stant and chief interest, and to it she 
devoted her life, going thither on 
holidays as on the usual work days, 
hardly ever taking a vacation, working 
often through serious illness. In fact, 
she would be still living, doubtless, 
had she heeded more vigilantly the 








demands for rest of a constitution 
whose original vitality was exhausted, 
and in her last illness more promptly 
sought the aid of a physician. Her 
lively spirit could not realize, it 
seemed, that she, the courageous, the 
vivacious, might indulge her zeal 
beyond possibility of recuperation. 
Though it was evident that her health 
was becoming gradually impaired dur- 
ing several years, she lost none of her 
grasp upon the absorbing and in- 
creasing volume of work. Only when 
pneumonia made critical a complica- 
tion of conditions in May, 1911, did 
she retire to a hospital, where, on 
May 21, her illness became fatal. 

From the first, prodigious labors were 
undertaken by the Draper Memorial 
under Mrs. Fleming's direction. 
Throughout each clear night, at 
Arequipa and at Cambridge, photo- 
graphic instruments recorded the ever- 
changing vista of starry realm from 
celestial pole to pole, and year by 
year there multiplied in the oaken 
cases of the Memorial Library a 
collection of glass negatives that is 
greater to-day than the aggregate 
collections of all other observatories. 
To catalogue these plates as books are 
catalogued in a library is but a minor 
care compared with the cataloguing 
of the individual stars, classified from 
these photographs according to re- 
spective spectra and magnitudes. Yet 
such routine tasks, progressing as the 
photographic collection increased, have 
been the essential basis for all those 
investigations on a scale impossible 
anywhere else in the world that have 
engrossed the Harvard Observatory 
for many years. Other catalogues, also, 
were prepared; notably the Draper 
catalogue, giving general description of 
the spectra of more than ten thousand 
stars, completed by Mrs. Fleming 
alone in 1890, and since used authori- 
tatively all over the world. It was a 
task most difficult as well as important, 
for the reason that lines in the spectra 
of faint stars were often too faint to 
be recognized except with much study 
and the best of judgment. She had a 
very acute and discriminating eye for 

such observations, the slightest differ- 
ence between photographic impres- 
sions of any object on varying dates 
never escaping her. For, it should be 
understood, an investigation of stellar 
photographs for scientific research in- 
volves, not cursory glances at several 
negatives, but the most minute, serious, 
painstaking scrutiny, both with and 
without a microscope, star by star, 
region by region, throughout a series 
of impressions that portray the history 
of any selected portion of the sky 
during two or more years. In classi- 
fying spectra, Mrs. Fleming per- 
ceived that while a large proportion of 
them resemble a few typical stars, 
there are also many that have peculiar 
or unusual lines. By the presence of 
bright lines she thus discovered ten 
Novae out of eighteen new stars 
discovered during an entire century, 
and only twenty-nine known to as- 
tronomy. In each case she made the 
final authoritative confirmation of the 
first appearance of the Nova, never 
doubting the validity of photographic 
evidence, even when, in early days, 
skeptics attributed such discoveries to 
defects on the film. Not once did her 
decision err. 

She also found more than three hun- 
dred stars that vary in brightness. 
Observations of variable stars had 
previously been to students of the 
sidereal universe what the writing of 
verse is to the novelist, what the 
painting of scenery is to the portrait 
artist, — a kind of professional recrea- 
tion. Even amateur eye-observers 
have contributed now and then to the 
list of these picturesque bodies, but 
not till a systematic investigation of 
them through the vast resources of 
Draper Memorial photographs was 
undertaken at Harvard and assigned 
to Miss H. S. Leavitt in 1903, were 
astronomers able to calculate to what 
extent the sky abounds in orbs whose 
light varies from time to time. Prior 
to that date only about fifteen hundred 
variable stars had been confirmed in 
variability, of which some five hundred 
were detected since 1895 on Harvard 
photographs by Professor Bailey dur- 



ing studies of star clusters, and up- 
wards of three hundred by Mrs. 
Fleming in examinations of spectra, 
as mentioned above. Since 1903 more 
than two thousand variables, of magni- 
tudes too faint ever to have been de- 
tected by any but the steady vision 
of the camera, and often too slightly 
variable to be noted in any but the 
most careful study of the photographs, 
have been proved variable and are 
being classified according to the degree 
and type of their fluctuations. It was 
through Mrs. Fleming's early dis- 
coveries that this investigation was 
instituted, Professor Pickering thus giv- 
ing to the world of science important 
data unavailable at present except 
through the Memorial Library. 

During her examinations of stellar 
spectra, Mrs. Fleming found fifty-nine 
gaseous nebulae, till then unknown to 
astronomers, sixty-nine stars of the 
Orion type having bright hydrogen 
lines, and ninety-one stars of the fifth 
type, Class O. She became much 
interested in the red stars, which some 
romanticist has called ''flowers of the 
sky," fading orbs that are yielding 
to age, "frail as their silken sisters 
of the field." Their spectra are of 
the fourth type, Class N, and appear 
very short on photographs taken with 
the objective prism. Other spectra 
which resemble these, in much scat- 
tered regions, but which contain as 
much blue light as stars of the second 
type, Mrs. Fleming assigned to a new 
type called sixth type, or Class R. 
These are "the forget-me-nots of the 
angels," flowers of the sky in fullest 
florescence. Sirius and Vega, for in- 
stance, are brilliant stars of the first 
type, young, vigorous; sentinels guard- 
ing two boundaries of our visible uni- 
verse. Our own sun, like Capella and 
Pollux, are older, as their golden light 
proves already in the sear and yellow 
leafage of celestial bloom. Alpha 
Tauri (the poet's Aldebaron) and 
Antares glow ruby red. 

Such is the glamour that glorifies into 
romance the tale of a labyrinthine 
record of classes and Greek letters, 
of right ascensions and declinations 

and minute fractions of time and arc, 
of plate numbers and degrees of mag- 
nitude, whose perusal would seem a 
wilderness of numerals to the unas- 
tronomical mind. The wonders of 
astrophysics, the fairyland of as- 
tronomy in which the astrographer 
may journey now with somewhat of 
confidence, can be established only by 
means of facts indicated in these 
authoritative tabulations, else each 
astronomer must repeat every item of 
investigation for himself. Let woman- 
kind rejoice that here, as in every 
other difficult task of the world, 
woman has fulfilled faithfully her 
arduous part. 

The latest work upon which Mrs. 
Fleming was engaged is a catalogue 
called "Peculiar Spectra," which gives 
tables of the curious Class O and 
Class N stars, with descriptions of 
their peculiarities. The results of her 
laborious work in measuring the posi- 
tion and magnitude of sequences for 
observing two hundred and twenty- 
two of the variable stars she discovered, 
she has presented in "Photographic 
Study of Variable Stars," in Vol. 
XLVII of the Harvard Observatory 
Annals. Most of these variables were 
detected by the presence of bright 
hydrogen lines, traversing a banded 
spectrum of Class M. This combina- 
tion of lines and bands, which she 
called Md, always greatly interested 
her; she considered it certain evidence 
of the star's variability. She gave 
much attention to this class of spec- 
trum, dividing it into eleven sub- 
classes which depend upon the relative 
brightness of the hydrogen lines and 
the position of the maximum intensity 
of the continuous spectrum. A dis- 
cussion of the ten Novae which she 
discovered is given in "Peculiar Spec- 
tra," among the other curious phe- 
nomena just mentioned. 

This distinction of Nova discoveries, 
had she achieved nothing else, was 
sufficient to extend her reputation 
world-wide. But in many ways the 
remarkable success of the entire out- 
put of the Draper Memorial may be 
accredited to her; not only because of 



her distinguished executive manage- 
ment of this department with all its 
incidental correspondence and con- 
stant supervision of work, nor even 
because her own eyes, looking through 
the magnifying glass, examined every 
photograph added to the Draper 
Memorial collection before allowing it 
to be used in any investigation, and 
she personally supervised for publi- 
cation much of the copious data con- 
tained in volumes of the Annals of the 
observatory; but because her dis- 
cerning scientific judgment suggested 
many of the most important and in- 
teresting investigations undertaken, 
and then aided in planning and carry- 
ing them out with an unerring pre- 
cision. This is a strong statement, 
and in asserting it I wish to leave the 
fact clear that in nowise did Mrs. 
Fleming proceed except with the ad- 
vice and approval of the director. 
His is the guiding mind of the ob- 
servatory, and no more fitting tribute 
could be offered here than that in- 
scribed by Mrs. Fleming's own hand 
for the writer five or six years ago: 

"The success of the work at the 
Harvard College Observatory is due 
to the untiring energy, zeal, executive 
power, and inventive genius of its 
able director, Professor Edward C. 
Pickering, who since 1877 has devoted 
practically his whole time to the work. 
Nearly all the instruments used in both 
the photographic and photometric re- 
searches have been constructed from 
his plans and under his direction, while 
all the plans of work at the various 
stations have been the direct outcome 
of plans for researches on a compre- 
hensive scale, in order to obtain all 
the necessary material or observations 
to render the researches undertaken 
complete, from pole to pole. At no 
other observatory in the world has 
work been undertaken on such a scale, 
and to him is due the credit that at 
Harvard this has not only been under- 
taken, but is being carried on most 

Mrs. Fleming's chief gifts were 
executive and administrative — the 
greatest gifts required for such ex- 

tensive routine investigations, each 
occupying many years. The public 
does not recognize this type of genius 
so readily as it relishes the sensational 
declarations of observers who, per- 
haps, never contribute one jot to the 
absolute science of astronomy, but 
deal in lively speculations and star 
gossip. Three-fourths of her time was 
necessarily engaged in administrative 
duties, so it is really surprising that 
she was able to accomplish any per- 
sonal investigations of the photo- 
graphs at all. 

"A gift of order is much different 
from a gift of administration. The 
former helps the latter. Mrs. Fleming 
had both," Professor Pickering stated 
recently, in recalling her work. "She 
was very methodical and possessed an 
extraordinary memory, which was 
especially manifest in her preparation 
of the observatory records. She could 
have accomplished far more during 
the last years of her life if she had had 
more assistants; but since the annual 
income of the observatory was re- 
duced $5,000 a few years ago, it was 
not possible to employ a corps large 
enough to carry out all of our desired 
plans. Nor do the Annals of Draper 
Memorial work already published 
represent all of Mrs. Fleming's personal 
contributions to astronomy; she has 
left completed and partially completed 
work that will fill several further 
volumes, which are now being published 
from time to time." 

Mrs. Fleming's influence in as- 
tronomy has been felt throughout 
all continents in scientific circles. 
Her ability was quickly appreciated 
there. The importance of her work 
and the faithfulness and industry 
with which it was conducted led to 
the establishment of her title of 
Curator of the Astrophysical Library, 
a place created for her in 1897 by the 
Corporation of Harvard University, 
and marking the only instance of a 
woman filling an official position in the 
institution. The Corporation testi- 
fies now that Harvard has benefited 
satisfactorily by the appointment. 

(Though not yet formally bestowed 



by the Corporation, that title has 
fallen worthily upon Miss Annie J. 
Cannon, who has been engaged in the 
Draper Memorial work since 1896. 
In compiling a catalogue, everywhere 
recognized as a standard, giving de- 
tailed description of stars visible to 
the naked eye in both hemispheres and 
involving many years of ceaseless 
labor, Miss Cannon catalogued the 
southern as Miss Antonia C. Maury 
had catalogued the northern stars. 
She is now conducting a stupendous 
tabulation for more than one hundred 
thousand stars of such general de- 
scription and detail as given in the 
Draper Memorial catalogue, — a task, 
says the astronomer, that would re- 
quire two decades if woman's wit. had 
not systematized it to less than half 
of one.) 

Mrs. Fleming's honors among as- 
tronomical societies remain unchal- 
lenged. One of these is her honorary 
degree from Wellesley College as 
Associate in Astronomy. Another is 
her membership in the Astronomical 
and Astrophysical Society of America; 
likewise that of the Societe astro- 
nomique de France. A greater one 
came from London in 1906, where the 
Royal Astronomical Society records 
the names of only three women, and 
those as Honorary Fellows, — Miss 
Agnes M. Clarke, who has written the 
three best histories of astronomy exe- 
cuted by any person; Lady Huggins, 
who gave to her husband such able 
assistance in his astronomical re- 
searches as Caroline Herschel gave 
to her brother, or Mrs. Draper to her 
husband, and Williamina Paton Flem- 
ing. A few months before her death, 
also, the Astronomical Society of 
Mexico presented her with the Guada- 
lupe Almendaro medal for her dis- 
covery of new stars. 

Honors so high and work so engross- 
ing, monotonous often as well as 
imperative, might be presumed to 
supplant any domestic gifts or inter- 
ests. Not so with Mrs. Fleming. 
Indeed, not so with any famous 
woman astronomer history has known. 
It seems that that very genius for tact- 

ful execution, for patient attention to 
detail, for swift comprehension, which 
has re-enforced their intelligence in 
astronomy and lifted them into promi- 
nence, has been only a larger expres- 
sion of the power that made them able 
housekeepers and home-makers. For 
women, in the world of science, wher- 
ever notably successful, have not 
come there as rivals of men, but rather 
have supplemented and extended, 
often suggested and planned the 
work of men, thus fulfilling the princi- 
ple of their mission in the scheme of 
t creation as helpmeets. Many gifts, 
apparently diverse, composed the 
strong harmony of Mrs. Fleming's 
ability. Ingenuity and high artistic 
taste gave her rare skill in that humble, 
but noble craft, sewing; she might 
have supported herself by needlework, 
millinery, dressmaking, what she 
would. Because that was not neces- 
sary, she delighted in doing bits of 
sewing (not always "fancy work," but 
good, practical stitchery) for friends 
or for persons in need, and she and 
some of her assistants managed to fill 
such interstices of mathematical labor 
as only a woman could find in dressing 
dolls for hospitals and fairs. Mrs. 
Fleming's dolls always sold readily, 
those in full Highland costume being 
especially popular. On one occasion, 
a few years ago, she conceived the idea 
of getting up a Christmas tree for the 
children of families connected with 
the observatory work of Arequipa 
Station in Peru. Everybody helped 
enthusiastically, and the tree became 
a gorgeous reality. Of course there 
had to be some dolls, and Mrs. Flem- 
ing insisted they should be astronom- 
ical dolls. Vega, Castor, Pollux, and 
a score of other star representatives 
were very interesting, but it was 
conceded that there was quite an 
astronomical sensation when Mrs. 
Fleming introduced a big, handsome 
Algol, and as its dark companion a 
miniature black Dinah. 

In personality Mrs. Fleming was 
very quiet, very earnest, very sincere, 
quick to sympathize, altogether mag- 
netic. Of all women none could have 



been more reticent of personal credit. 
To journalists, who sometimes sought 
her, she would talk readily and en- 
thusiastically of the interesting and pro- 
found researches undertaken through 
the Draper Memorial and made 
possible by so vast and so com- 
prehensive a library of negatives. 
Her own part in these researches she 
unconsciously left inconspicuous, be- 
cause she regarded her work as a high 
privilege. But she gave unstinted 
praise to her assistants, and encouraged 
their efforts by attributing in her 
preparation of the Annals or in state- 
ments for the public press every possi- 
ble item of investigation to the woman 
who was engaged upon it. Her atti- 
tude towards the efficiency of Harvard 
Observatory and its significant rank 
among the great observatories of the 

world is indicated in her tribute to the 
director, contained in a preceding 
paragraph, wherein she expressed, not 
an intended quotation, but such ab- 
stract facts as she feared might not 
otherwise be forcibly enough stated. 

Fond of people and excitement, 
there was no more enthusiastic spec- 
tator in the Stadium of the football 
games, no more ardent champion of 
the Harvard eleven. She was never 
too tired to welcome her friends at her 
home or at the observatory with that 
quality of human sympathy which is 
sometimes lacking among women en- 
gaged in purely scientific pursuits, 
and her bright face, her kindly manner, 
and her cheery greeting, with its at- 
tractive little Scottish accent, will long 
be remembered by even the most 
casual visitors to the observatory. 








The Christmas-Tree Picture 


THE sound of laughter made the 
Librarian turn impatiently, 
the frown on her face deepen- 
ing as her eyes fell on her as- 
sistants. They were standing in a 
group laughing and talking. They 
seemed to have forgotten where they 
were and to have laid aside their usual 
subdued and quiet manners. 

The place was deserted so far as 
outsiders were concerned, and had the 
Librarian been less unhappy, she 
would have noted with a thrill of pride 
how fine a picture the room made with 
its long stretches of book-lined walls, 
its rare prints and engravings, its sub- 

dued lights and shining brasses. It 
had the appearance of being a secluded 
haunt for book-lovers rather than a 
part of that piece of modern machinery 
called the city's "Public Library." 

Outside the snow was falling in big 
flakes, softening the grim lines of the 
factory opposite and making the tene- 
ments beyond positively beautiful. 
The people on the streets seemed to 
emerge from whirling clouds of white, 
and as they passed the window the 
woman noticed that they all wore a 
look of joyous content. Most of them 
were carrying packages of varying 
sizes piled high in their arms. 



It was Christmas Eve in that dark 
street as well as in the great bright 
world beyond. 

The Librarian, reflecting bitterly on 
the inequalities of life, felt that she 
fairly hated the people in the streets. 
At this hour they usually passed with 
heavy, tired steps, but to-day they 
flew, eager to get home to show their 
gifts and decorate their trees. To- 
morrow the candles would be lighted 
and the children of the rich and the 
poor would dance in glee around the 
glittering, gift-laden trees. She could 
almost smell the spruce as a candle 
burned too low! 

She glanced again at her assistants; 
they were watching the clock and talk- 
ing about bonbons and roses. Last 
year she had roses, pink roses, dozens 
of them, and this year she would have, 
no doubt, gifts of a kind. She would 
open them in her hall bedroom, then go 
down to the half-done turkey that 
would make the Christmas dinner. 
She would listen to the mild jokes of 
the mild young men who, like herself, 
would have no place but the boarding- 
house table to dine. 

Sheer self-pity forced a resolu- 
tion. She would have pink roses 
and French bonbons, what matter 
if no card of loving greeting came 
with them! She would buy her 
Christmas joys or the outward sem- 
blance of them. 

She was recalled from her musings 
as to the probable cost of Christmas 
roses by seeing a man who carried a 
cedar tree in his arms almost knock 
down a little girl who had turned 
toward the entrance of the library. 
In the vestibule the child stopped to 
stamp the slush from her sodden shoes. 
As she came in, the warm air made the 
snow on her shawl melt, leaving a tiny 
trail of water to mark her progress 
from the door. 

She was a mere slip of a girl, of per- 
haps fourteen winters. Looking into 
her somber eyes one would have said 
that there had been no summers in 
that child's life. She wore a rough 
blouse underneath her shawl, from the 
folds of which she brought carefully, 

half fearfully, a book. It was "The 
Story of Christmas." 

"You are getting that book wet!" 
the Librarian cried. 

The child, more frightened than 
there seemed cause to be, gasped out: 

"Please, ma'am, mind my card, I 
don't want any more books," and ran 
toward the door. 

"Come back until I see if your book 
is all right." 

The child hesitated: 

"Please, ma'am, I'm in a hurry." 

The reason for her hurry was soon 
apparent, as the frontispiece of the 
story, an expensive lithograph, was 

The woman looked from the book 
to the child, whose face was expression- 

"Zilda," she said, "where is the 

"What picture?" 

"The picture that was in this book 
when you borrowed it." 

"No, ma'am, it no picture had." 

"But it did, I tell you." 

"No, ma'am." > 

Finally the child became excited 
and protested aloud that she had never 
seen a picture in her life in that or any 
other book. 

"Please, ma'am, let me go home, I 
must go home." 

" If I let you go home will you bring 
the picture?" 

"I can not. I have it not and my 
father he dies." 

The Librarian looked for a moment 
at the merry throngs in the streets, then 
turned to the pitiful figure of the child 
whose sunken chest was heaving as she 
sobbed out denials. Often in the past 
she had been lenient in such cases, for 
it is hard to deal out justice to a weep- 
ing child, especially if the child looks 
cold and hungry. But the very happi- 
ness of the day, the happiness in which 
she felt she had no share, unconsciously 
hardened her. She said to herself that 
she would do her duty even though it 
was Christmas Eve and the poor 
Italian child had a cough and was 
wearing ragged shoes. She would rise 
above her emotions, and for her negli- 



gence, carelessness, sin, whatever it 
was, Zilda Ferari should pay. 

She turned to the child. 

"Where do you live?" 

"I do not live any more, it's on the 
streets we are. The Judgment he sits 
in the parlor." 

"Don't be stupid, Zilda, I have your 
address and I am going home with you 
to get the picture and then I will take 
you to the Children's Court." 

The child gave a piercing shriek. 

"You cannot go home with me," 
she said, "my feet, they are dead;" 
and she sank in a heap on the floor. 

But when it was time to start her 
feet were in a state of resurrection and 
she seemed fairly cheerful. She even 
admired her companion's fur and 
asked if she would not let go her hand 
a moment as she would like to stroke 
" the beautiful lady's" muff. She had 
often, she said, dreamed of such muffs, 
"soft and catty," but she would really 
like to touch it with both hands at 
once. As she was allowed the use 
of only one, she failed in her effort to 
snatch the other away in the crush at 
the corner. 

Farther on she declared that they were 
lost, she did not know which way to go. 

At every turn there was a reason for 
delay; at every unguarded moment an 
effort to escape. At last she began 
to sob again. 

As the crowd pushed and jostled 
them it would have been hard to tell 
which was the most unhappy — the 
child being hurried on to her doom, 
or the woman terrified by the shiver- 
ing of the little figure beside her, hor- 
ribly conscious of her own warm wraps, 
yet resolved that she would tread the 
path of duty. 

As they turned into the street where 
was to be found the Casa Ferari, the 
child stopped. 

"Teacher," she said, "you must not 
go, I have lied to you !" 

"I knew that, Zilda— " 

"But not how great was my lie. 
Let me tell you about it, Sister." 

At this title of endearment the 
woman tightened her hold on the 
child's cold hand. 

"We are the Black Hand, Sister, 
and when you go in it is dark and some 
one stabs, quick!" 

"They would not dare, Zilda, and 
besides you are not the Black Hand." 

"What does 'dare' mean, Sister?" 

"Oh, just that such a thing would be 

"But, Sister, the big Black Hand 
man just loves to stab, once I heard him 
say, 'Stiletto meo e carrissimo!' and 
he kissed it. Sister!" 

While this did not frighten, it by no 
means inspired confidence in the self- 
imposed instrument of justice, and 
she was rather glad to pause for a mo- 
ment at the door of the big tenement 

Here the manner of the child changed. 
She faced her captor unfalteringly, 
and said quietly: 

"Let me go in first and tell my 
mother, for my father, he dies!" 

The sincerity of her tone frightened 
the woman and made her hesitate, then 
she added this to the already long list 
of excuses, and said: 

"Why do you lie when it is so use- 
less, Zilda, and about your father? For 

" 'Tis no shame, 'tis no lie, my father 
he dies. He coughs much, he lies still, 
he groans much and soon he dies. He 
cough much," she cried, thinking she 
6aw a look of hesitation. "He coughs 
so — and — so — and then red blood. 
Oh, my father he dies!" 

"Then let us go in." 

The child lifted her tear-stained 
face and looked at the woman, that 
look that is hard to understand on a 
child's face, for it seems to take your 
measure and then defy you. 

"Come," she said, "and may the 
Blessed Virgin curse you ! " 

She led the way, not up but down a 
flight of steps. Each step plunging 
them deeper into that darkness from 
which she had said a stiletto might at 
any moment flash. 

The woman paused, feeling her way; 
the child flung back at her a single 
word heavy with contempt: 


In the hallway below they stumbled 



against something, a something that 
moved and squirmed in the dim light, 
a bundle of living, dirty rags. Zilda 
hastened to explain with morbid yet 
impish delight: 

"That's old Maria, she gets drunk 
every day, mostly she likes to lie on 
the first floor landing, but to-day old 
Pietro has her place. — Aha, Maria, for 
shame to let Pietro beat you out of 
your good, light place!" 

"Would you like to go up and see 
old Pietro? He is not so drunk as 
Maria, he can yet put forth his hand 
and say: 'Alms, alms! I am poor and 
old and very cold!'" Her voice was 
no longer childish, it was the voice of 
a man old and cold. 

"Come, oh come," she said, "I can 
show you many things! On the top 
floor a little boy with no legs, down 
below a woman with no tongue, they 
say her lover cut it out. Once she 
danced so — " And she caught at her 
scant skirts and began to dance, her 
wet shoes sounding cold and sodden on 
the stone floor. 

Then she began to weep again. 

"You will not go? No? Come, my 
father he dies! The Blessed Virgin 
curse you." 

She pushed the door open and the 
sting of the air, foul with gas from a 
coal-oil stove, choked like fingers at the 
throat. Over this stove a number of 
children huddled. They scattered at 
sight of a stranger, peering out from 
their corners like frightened little ani- 
mals at bay. 

The mother appeared in the door- 
way, hiding the next room from view. 
She stared at the stranger and said 
nothing, but Zilda began to interpret: 

"My mother says you lie, go home 
or the big Black Hand man will stab 

Then she turned to her mother and 
said in Italian: 

"She says she is going to put me in 
jail. She says I stole the Christmas- 
tree picture." 

Just what happened next the Li- 
brarian could never remember, except 
that a frightful cry had drawn them all 
into the next room and then together 

she and the Italian woman had worked 
to save the life of a half dead man. 

She remembered calling for brandy, 
for a hot-water bottle, for something, 
for anything, and then came the awful 
realization that the man was not only 
ill but starving; that except for the 
cot on which he lay, a few broken 
chairs and the miserable clothes they 
wore, there was nothing, absolutely 
nothing, in the two poor rooms that 
family called home. She sent for 
brandy and then rushed out in an 
agony of terror lest they should all 
starve before she could get back. 

She tried to remember the names of 
the things Italians are supposed to eat 
and then bought quantities of meat 
and onions, milk and eggs, fruit and 
cakes. She fed the sick man while the 
family at first silently, then hilariously, 
stuffed. There was no table, no plates, 
no cups, but in a circle on the floor 
they ate and laughed and cried. 

When the patient had fallen asleep 
the Librarian, trying to steal softly into 
the next room, brushed from the wall a 
piece of heavy paper that had been 
stuck there. It fell to the floor un- 
covering a sort of niche, and there, 
carefully pinned to the wall, was the 
sought-for frontispiece, a bright colored 
picture of a Christmas tree. About 
it were strewn a few faded paper 
flowers, in front of it was set a tiny 
piece of candle with a match, all in 
readiness to celebrate on the morrow! 

"Come, Zilda, we must buy some 
coal and find a doctor." 

The child's hand stole softly into 

"Why do you cry, dear Sister?" 

It did not take long to find the doc- 
tor and buy the coal. Then she 
bought a tree, and let Zilda select a 
gift for each of the family, including 

The children all begged to go as far 
as the corner with their visitor when 
an hour later, bright with red and white 
candles and mysterious with packages, 
the little tree stood shining in the dark- 
ness and she turned from it to say 
good by. But she would not let 
them go beyond the front door and 



then with a last "Dio ti benedica" 
ringing in her ears she started toward 
Broadway and an up-town car, only 
to remember that the candles had 
taken her last penny. 

She turned her face toward the 

north and laughed as the snowflakes 
met her. 

"What does it matter?" she whis- 
pered softly; "it is good to walk, for 
every one you meet is happy. It is 
Christmas Eve!" 

Old School Days on the 
Maine Coast 


LIKE almost every one who can 
remember back fifty odd years 
or more, I began my education 
in a little red schoolhouse. 
It stood in a sparsely settled part of 
a small shipbuilding town on the 
coast of Maine. It was thus located 
alongside the old town house so as to 
cover the geographical center of the 
town and make reaching it equally 
difficult for everybody. It was built 
of red brick and furnished with the 
regulation green seats and desks, deeply 
carved with the autographs of our 
illustrious predecessors. A single out- 
side door admitted us to the entry, 
which served the double duty of 
woodshed and cloak-room, and from 
which we entered the main room by 
two doors, one for the boys and one 
for the girls. Between these doors, 
on a raised platform, stood the teach- 
er's desk. To the right and left were 
the stoves, tall, black, and cylindrical, 
connected by long, uncertain pipes 
with the chimneys at the rear of the 
room. The floor was an inclined 
plane, so constructed, I suppose, that 
all round, moving bodies — apples, 
oranges, balls, and marbles — might 
come to rest near teacher's platform. 
I remember making frantic efforts 
to stop their fateful course as they 
sped past my seat, but they all 
eventually disappeared in teacher's 
capacious desk. It was a part of the 

Discipline in those days was given 
first consideration, so it is not strange 
that as I recall my early experiences 

the punishments which were inflicted 
on us should come first to my mind. 
A favorite punishment for the trouble- 
some boys was seating them with the 
girls. I remember being often in- 
flicted with a masculine seatmate. I 
still have my doubts as to which of us 
suffered most — it was a sort of vi- 
carious atonement on my part. But 
those boys were not so bad, after all. 
There was Joe Seabury! His greatest 
offense was making a noise with his 
feet. How he could have helped it, 
and wear his heavy copper-toed shoes, 
is beyond my power to explain. He 
was the only child of Captain Joseph 
Seabury, who was almost always away 
at sea on a three years' voyage. Joe, 
likewise, later followed the sea. He 
was the biggest tease of them all. 
There were no storm bells in those 
days, and holidays had not come into 
fashion. The only times when I 
remember being dismissed were when 
the big ships were launched. Then 
we were let out just long enough 
before high tide to give us time to 
reach the shipyard. It is many years 
now since those noble ships leaped 
"into the ocean's arms." 

Never were we excused for bad 
weather. When it was unusually se- 
vere we took our dinners and "stayed 
at noon." We liked to do this for its 
social advantages. One noon when we 
girls were busy exchanging doughnuts, 
cakes, and pies, there was a loud 
knock at the door. We were a little 
alarmed at first, but one of the big 
girls finally plucked up courage and 



answered it. We sat breathless while 
she interviewed the unknown visitor. 
Finally she returned and said I was 
wanted. I had never been called out 
but once before that I could remember, 
and that was when Cousin Ella came 
unexpectedly from Portland to make 
me a visit. During the interval of 
getting out I ran over all my possible 
aunts, uncles, and cousins, even to 
the third and fourth removed. Im- 
agine my surprise and discomfiture 
when I closed the door behind me to 
have Joe jump from behind the wood- 
pile, grab me around the neck, and 
give me a rousing kiss on the cheek. 
I think echoes of the explosion reached 
the remotest corners of the little school- 
room, and I thought I should never get 
over my mortification. 

I think on the whole I was a good 
little girl, for I recall numerous col- 
lections of soiled and much worn little 
slips marked "merit," which teacher 
eventually exchanged for beautiful col- 
ored pictures of birds and flowers, 
whereon was clearly written, "Pre- 
sented to Emma R. Sargent by her 
teacher, Miss Abby So-and-So." 
However, I recall one instance of 
violation of rules on my part. It 
happened in the early spring when a 
few of us wandered beyond the sound 


of the recess bell, hunting for young 
checkerberry leaves. I remember 
thinking the recess unusually long, and 
making a quick run back to the school- 
house, only to find that we were five 
minutes late by teacher's watch. In 
consequence we were kept one whole 





hour after school. It seemed an un- 
just sentence, but there was no appeal, 
so we had to accept it, and were given 
long columns of figures to add to 
beguile the time. But like all things 
else in this world it came to an end 
at last and we were set free. I was 
feeling pretty much cast down with my 
disobedience behind me and a long 
walk home alone ahead of me. Always 
Susie, my dearest friend and seatmate, 
and I walked home together. She 

was a dear, sweet, fat, pink and 
white little girl with whom I 
shared all my secrets. We had 
a post office together on the sand 
hill back of the schoolhouse, a 
sequestered hole in the ground 
covered with a flat stone, wherein 
we deposited our letters to each 
other. We were so seldom apart 
it was hard to escape each other 
long enough to deposit them. 
Strangely Susie had not been 
with me on the checkerberry 
hunt — I think she may have 
been mailing her daily letter to 
me — and had consequently been 
dismissed at the regular time. 
What was my joy when I stepped 
sadly out into the world again 
to find Susie and Joe sitting on 
the stone step, patiently waiting for 
me. I lived nearer to the school- 
house than they, so they had to leave 
me by the way and go on together 
quite a bit farther. I often urged 
my father to buy a house out on the 
street where they lived. He did 
later, but I was eighteen then, 
Susie was through school and keep- 
ing house for her father, for her 
mother had died, and they said 
she was engaged to young Captain 






Nat Sweetsir. I did not see much of 
her, for I was going to the Academy 
then, though I felt too old to be still 
in school; and Joe, poor Joe, was away 
on a long foreign voyage. He never 
came back — was washed off the deck 
by a big wave in a storm. 

I fear I have been too long in getting 
at the course of study, for I suppose 
it was for that, really, that we were 
sent to school. There was reading 
and spelling and arithmetic ■ — ■ we 
didn't call it number, it was much 
more than that — and English grammar 
and history and geography, and writ- 

ing twice a week. I do not remember 
learning to read in school, but IjTdo 
remember Hilliard's Fifth Reader. 
There were no trifling supplementary 
readers in those days, with foolish 
little nature stories by unknown au- 
thors. Hilliard's Fifth was filled with 
solid first-class literature from cover 
to cover, and we read it and reread it 
until I was able to repeat the most of 
it from memory. I can even now re- 
call many of the favorite selections — 
"The Loss of the Arctic," by Henry 
Ward Beecher: "Eight days had 
passed. They beheld the distant bank 




of mist that forever haunts the vast 
shallows of Newfoundland," etc.; 
"The Death of the Little Scholar," 
by Charles Dickens; "The Soliloquy 
of the Dying Alchemist," by N. P. 
Willis; and that beautiful prose 
poem, "Mount Auburn," by Joseph 
Story, beginning, "We stand here 
upon the borders of two worlds." 
Teacher often selected one of these 
for us to read. I think the serious 
tone of them was believed to have 
a subduing influence on our naturally 
high spirits and tended to keep us 
within bounds. W 7 e learned to write 

by copying a beautiful slanting 
script copy at the top of the 
blank pages of our copy-books. 
These copies were proverbs sup- 
posed to embody the capitals 
and small letters, and, incident- 
ally, ennoble our characters. I 
remember one which I have 
never been able to really under- 
stand. It was, "A rolling stone 
gathers no moss." Now, if moss 
is a figurative expression for 
financial success — the accumula- 
tion of money and the things 
money will buy — and stone 
stands for us poor humans, my 
observations have proved the con- 
trary of this statement to be true. 
The roving boys and girls, those who 
left the old town, are the ones who 
have been most successful. We all 
recall with much pride the career 
of one of our number who went 
into business "up west somewhere, 
Boston way," I believe, and amassed 
a fortune of several thousand dollars 
which he left to the old town for 
a library. But maybe moss in the 
proverb does not mean worldly suc- 
cess. This was borne in upon me 




one day when I met old Eben 
Stubbs, who never left his ancestral 
acres, and I observed the beautiful 
moss-green color of his old black coat. 

Other troublesome and contradic- 
tory proverbs were in that old copy- 
book, namely, "Let well enough 
alone," and, on the next page, "Noth- 
ing venture, nothing have," etc. We 
got a good deal of spelling. Besides 
the everyday lesson, which we spelled 
off standing in line with our toes on a 
crack in the floor, there were occasional 
spelling matches. The aim of the 
teacher seemed to be to put out words 
which we never had seen and which 
probably we never should see outside 
of the dictionary. I recall two of 
them, "pterodactyl" and "valetudi- 
narianism," which in all the long 
years that have passed since then I 
have not been able to work either into 
my correspondence or my conversa- 
tion. The last I may be able to use 
however, if I am spared a few more 
years. English grammar was taught 
principally by parsing such difficult 
constructions as "Whom ye ignorantly 
worship, Him declare I unto you," 
and sections from Milton's "Paradise 
Lost." Sometimes some poor over- 
worked boy or girl would plead, 
"Say, teacher, won't you excuse me 
from 'Paradise Lost' to-day? I ain't 
had no time to study;" but teacher 
always stood firm and we were never 
let off. 

We changed teachers very often in 
our school. It was the policy of the 
school committee not to allow all the 
school money to flow into one family. 
Equal justice to all was their motto, 
and, whenever we had a new teacher, 
she started us afresh with the first 
chapters of our history and our geogra- 
phy. Mr. Elbridge Wagg, chairman 
of the school committee, seemed to 
favor this method too. It may be he 
was influenced by what he heard on 
examination days, which in his official 
capacity he always attended. Teacher 
always passed him a book and he 
asked questions. I remember one 
examination day when Susie particu- 
larly distinguished herself by her 

answer in the history class. "W T ho 
discovered the Pacific Ocean?" pro- 
nounced Mr. Wagg. Susie's hand 
waved frantically in the air. "Well, 
Susie?" "Benjamin Franklin, sir," 
bravely piped up Susie, then, catching 
a glimpse of teacher's lifted eyebrows, 
she quickly added, "Well, his name 
began with B anyway, and teacher 
said Benjamin Franklin discovered 

Geography examinations were il- 
luminating also. Poor Joe, though 
his father had been many times around 
the world, was as innocent as the rest 
of us of much knowledge of it. " Where 
is Patagonia, Joseph?" said Mr. Wagg. 
"In the southern part of Ireland, sir," 
replied Joe. Everybody laughed at 
this — I didn't see why. It didn't 
seem funny to me, and Joe felt awfully 
about it. So Mr. Wagg said it 
wouldn't do us any harm to review 
our history and geography, and we 
went calmly on learning over again 
that De Soto discovered the Missis- 
sippi River, and Balboa planted a 
cross on the mountains overlooking 
the Pacific Ocean, undisturbed by the 
momentous happenings of our own 
time. The fact that our country was 
plunged in a great civil war, that 
President Lincoln was calling for more 
and still more men, and that General 
Grant was leading them on to victory 
or defeat, nobody knew which, was 
never intruded into our history reci- 
tation. It would have been quite out 
of place to interrupt the orderly ar- 
trangement of our text-book narrative. 
Up-to-date history we learned when 
we got home from our fathers or 
the newspapers. I used to wonder 
in those war times what there would 
be to make newspapers of when the 
war was over. Even the shipping 
news made way for the war news. 

A few years ago I went back to the 
old town and took my daughter Helen 
with me. One day when we were 
standing under the big overarching 
elms in front of the old Academy, 
watching the boys and girls tumbling 
out the door, for it was recess, a gray- 
haired old gentleman came up and 



greeted us. "I suppose things look 
a good deal changed to you after so 
many years," he said. "No, Doctor," 
I answered, "things haven't changed 
very much." I was watching a boy 
and girl coming down the walk that 
looked like Joe and Susie. "Who is 

that old gentleman?" said Helen, 
when he had passed on. "That man? 
Oh, that is young Doctor Bates." 
Helen gave me a puzzled look, but 
did not say anything — she suspected 
where I was. I was away back in the 
old school days. 

The Guardian* 




His father had given him on his 
twenty-first birthday a plot of land on 
the crest of the hill just above the old 
homestead. He meant to erect there 
a house of his own. A vagrant artist, 
pausing there to set up his easel the 
summer before Julie came to Hio to 
teach, had furnished Nat his inspira- 

"Just one big room," the fellow had 
said, as Nat came over from the plow 
field to watch him, "just one big room 
and a little room off this for the kitchen. 
Then a broad flight of stairs sweeping 
to a snug bed or two under the eaves. 
That is all — that is enough. A fire- 
place at one end of the big room, pos- 
sibly, and a piazza facing the west. 
Windows everywhere. So, my lad, a 
man could live with his maid and his 
God very pleasantly, eh?" 

So a man could live with his maid 
and his God very pleasantly. The 
idea had appealed to Nat at once. 
With the succeeding months and Julie's 
black eyes, the idea had ever burned in 
the back of his mind. It was the next 
best thing to a home on the summit of 
Eagle. The simplicity of it appealed 
to him. The man had summed it up 
well, "With his maid and his God." 
That was all the company Nat craved, 
and so far as any very concrete notion 
went, he could get along without the 
latter except as expressed in the sky, 
the trees, the rolling sweep of forest, 

* Begun in the February number. 

and the decent standards of his own 

As soon as he was able to leave his 
bed and get out of doors he recovered 
his strength rapidly. At the end of 
another week he felt that he could no 
longer pose as a sick man and retain 
his self-respect. An incident which 
occurred late one afternoon when he was 
returning from a long walk with Julie 
made such a position more than ever 
ridiculous. They were strolling home 
through the big pasture, when they came 
face to face with a yearling bull which 
Mr. Moulton had that day turned loose. 
The animal was vicious and charged 
them at once. With a terrified scream 
Julie took to her heels, but was stopped 
in her tracks by an order from Nat. 

"Stand where ye are!" he com- 

She obeyed, though her knees trem- 
bled beneath her. Nat easily enough 
drew off the attack, and then faced the 
brute, who with lowered head was pre- 
paring for a second charge. 

"Ye'd better not," Nat warned him, 
much as though the bull were a mis- 
chievous small boy. 

With eyes aflame, the animal pawed 
the ground uncertainly. Nat walked 
directly towards him. The bull with 
a nervous bellow backed off. Nat fol- 
lowed, and with a quick dive seized the 
brute by the horns. He gave a sharp 
turn to the right, twisting the short 
thick neck in that direction. For the 
matter of ten seconds the two stood 
immovable in this pose — ■ the bull 

Copyright, 1912, Small, Maynard & Co, 



straining to recover his balance, Nat 
bearing down with relentless strength. 
Then suddenly the man threw in the 
weight of his body, and the yearling 
sank to his knees. With this advan- 
tage Nat gave one more twist, which 
borught out a roar of pain and sent 
the bull to his side. It was easy 
enough to hold the gasping brute in 
that position. 

"May — may I run now?" begged 

"No," answered Nat, "don't run. 
Come here." 

"Oh," she pleaded, "I — I can't, 

"There's no danger. Come here." 

She felt as though those same arms 
which had so relentlessly forced the 
bull to his side were now forcing her. 
She came — staggering as she walked, 
she came. As she stood by his side, 
he said: 

"You oughter get used to animals, 
Julie. They don't mean no harm." 

I — I want to run, Nat, 



He was patting the sleek neck and 
rubbing behind the limp ears. 

"See — thar's nothin' ails him ex- 
cept he's plumb full of life. Put your 
hand on his head." 

An hour ago she would have called 
the act an utter impossibility. She 
stooped and placed her fingers for a 
second on the throbbing neck. 

"Good!" he praised her. "Now 
stand back a little." 

"You — you aren't going to turn 
him loose?" 

"Why not?" he asked. 


"You can run, Julie, if you're scared. 

For a moment she hesitated. She 
glanced at the fence a hundred yards 
away. Nat waited. 

"I'll hold him till you're over," he said. 

She stepped back a pace or two, 
clenched her fists, and said: 

"I'll stay here." 

"Then — ■ steady," he called. 

He loosened his hold and sprang to 
a position in front of her, alert as a 
cougar for a possible attack. But, as 
he thought, the youngster had learned 

his lesson. With a snort of disgust 
the bull scrambled to his feet, turned 
tail, and ran. Nat laughed. 

"Look at him go!" he exclained. 
"Hi — yi!" 

With each shout the bull let out an- 
other link until he finally disappeared 
behind a distant clump of trees. When 
Nat turned, he found Julie somewhat 
pale-cheeked but smiling. 

"I stayed — didn't I?", she said, 
eagerly looking to him for approbation. 

"I thought ye would," he answered. 

"And now — and now I guess I'll 
take your arm." 

He helped her over the fence. On 
the other side she sat down quite out 
of breath. 

But the incident had given Nat the 
consciousness of his shoulder muscles 
again, and with that he realized the 
work for which they were made and 
which was awaiting his return. He 
determined upon the spot to leave in 
the morning. 

"Julie," he said, abruptly, "I'm go- 
ing back to-morrow." 

"Back — where?" she asked in as- 

"Home," he answered. 

For a moment her eyes rested on his 
and then she answered in some con- 
fusion at her stupidity: 

"Why, of cousre, Nat." 

For a breath or two she had for- 
gotten that he had another home. She 
turned away her head. 

"I'm goin' to build a house," he 
announced next. 

"Yes?" she asked, resolved not to 
be surprised at anything else he might 

"A house of my own — on top of 
the hill." 

"That is a fine place for a house," 
she nodded. 

"I don't know how long it will take 
me 'cause I want to build it all my- 

She glanced up swiftly. 

"I should think it would take you 
years," she answered. 

He laughed uneasily. 

" I feel now as though I could do it in 
a week," he said. 



"Then you must be planning a very 
small house," she concluded. 

"Just big enough for two," he an- 
swered slowly. 

She found her cheeks growing scar- 
let. She started to rise. 

"Julie," he called, reaching for her 
arm and checking her. 

"Yes, Nat." 

"When it's done — when it's done, 
I'm coming back here and — " 

"Nat," she interrupted. 

"Yes?" he asked eagerly. 

"You mustn't say what you were 
going to say." 

"You know what I mean?" 

She turned impulsively and placed 
her hand upon his arm. 

"Nat," she said hurriedly, "we've 
been good friends. Let's stay just 
good friends. I like you just as you 
are — big and strong and kind. Some- 
how you seem like the best friend I 
have in the world. " 

He seized her hand. 

"That's enough," he said. 

"You don't understand," she fal- 
tered. "Oh, Nat, don't make me hurt 

"I guess you're allers goin' to hurt," 
he answered, "but it doesn't seem to 
make any difference." 

"If you only knew," she cried help- 

"Knew what?" he demanded. 

"I can't tell you. I mustn't tell 
you. You must just take my word 
that — that we can't ever be anything 
but the best of friends. " 

"I wouldn't take any one's word for 
that," he replied determinedly. 

She drew away from him. With 
head bent low, she clasped her hands in 
her lap. He rose and stood before her. 

"I wouldn't take any one's word 
for that," he repeated. "Maybe I'll 
have to wait. Maybe I'll have to wait 
a long time, but some day, sure's fate, 
you're coming up into that house." 

She struggled to her feet. 

"Nat," she cried, "you mustn't say 
such things. You have no right." 

"Maybe not," he answered, "but I 
can't help sayin' them. I jus' want 
to tell ye what I know, Julie. " 

"Know?" she demanded wildly , 
"How do you know?" 

" I've known it ever since that night 
on the mountain," he answered. 

"But that," she hid her face, "that 
was all an accident. And even then — 
Oh, Nat, you're making an awful mis- 

"No," he answered. "Here ye 
stand — you and me. If any one 
tries to take you away, they've got to 
get by me. They've got to get by me, 
an' they couldn't do it, Julie. Don't 
ye see?" he asked very simply. 

His body had stiffened, so that when 
she stared at him he truly did look 
a formidable barrier. He was some 
primeval fighting man who could have 
borne her away right there and then 
had he chosen. For a second she 
felt absolutely helpless; for a second 
she was glad of her helplessness. This 
seemed to solve the whole difficulty. 
He placed his hand on her shoulder. 

"They'd have to fight hard to get 
you away from me," he said. 

Trembling beneath his hand, she 
believed him. She threw up her head. 

"Oh!" she. exclaimed below her 

From the house came her mother's 
voice calling her. She jumped back, 
as though to escape from some great 
danger. Then, with another startled 
glance at Nat, she took to her heels and 

The Builder 

NAT came from the home of 
Julie Moulton to the home 
of his birth, and felt like an 
outcast from them both. 
Neither seemed any more like home 
than the log cabin which had shel- 
tered him last winter. There was 
nothing of himself in either of them. 
They were like last year's birds' nests. 
He took up the routine work of the 
farm at once, but each day left him as 
restless as a lost dog. He found it im- 
possible to remain indoors, where the 
talk was largely of 'Gene, and so often 
walked miles in an effort to tire him- 



self into a stupor. Twice during that 
week he covered the fifteen miles to 
St. Croix, and after standing a mo- 
ment before the Moulton house walked 
home again. Then by degrees his hot 
thoughts came into some sort of order, 
and he realized that before he would 
ever know again the meaning of home 
the home must be his own. Then it 
was that his brain was quickened with 
the great passion - — • the passion of the 
builder, of the creator. Then it was 
that he became one with the vagrant 
artist- — -one with all artists, for that 
matter. He must build and into the 
building he must put himself. 

He threw himself at once into the 
plans. With a sheet of blue-lined 
writing paper before him he sat up 
until dawn one night drawing and fig- 
uring. And though he was alone, 
with only the loud-ticking kitchen 
clock for company, it seemed to him 
that Julie was bending over his shoul- 
der all the while. He could almost 
feel her warm breath, almost feel the 
velvet brush of her cheeks. Hours 
passed like minutes in a glow per- 
fumed by her presence. Neither sleep 
nor bodily fatigue had any power over 
him. He was in the mood out of 
which are born great symphonies, great 
pictures. Yet, when he was through, 
his paper revealed only a roughly 
drawn parallelogram with little in- 
dentations and a column or two of 
thick black figures. That was all. 
It was like a child's drawing. And yet, 
if one had the eyes to see, it was the 
most wonderful sketch of a home ever 
drawn. It contained everything of 
brave strength, of deep loyalty, of 
pure purpose, of honest sincerity. It 
was built with the freshness of the 
dawn, painted with the glory of the 
sunset. Every window contained a 
dream, and every door was hallowed 
by tiny figures which moved in and 
out with honest laughter. Julie stood 
by his shoulder and smiled down at 
him and whispered that it was very 
good. He tumbled into bed for an 
hour's sleep that night and woke up 
refreshed and reborn. The next day 
he ordered his lumber, and the fol- 

lowing morning went to the crest of the 
hill with a ball of twine, a handful of 
stakes, and his shovel. 

He drove the first stake with the 
arrival of the first gray streak of light 
on the horizon line. The act had all 
the grave dignity of a prayer. When 
he lifted his head again towards the 
east, it was as though Julie had been 
there and had kissed him. Then it 
seemed to him as though the gates at 
the four points of the compass were 
suddenly thrown open. The world 
grew big, infinitely big. Had he been 
a poet, he could have written a fine 
poem at that moment; had he been an 
artist, he could have painted a great 
picture; had he been a musician, he 
could have caught a masterful sym- 
phony. As it was, he could only 
sense those glories without holding 
them. He saw visions without being 
able to interpret the visions. The 
most he was conscious of was a broad- 
ening joy, a triumphant peace that 
passed his understanding. He squared 
his shoulders, and for a moment stood 
there bewildered by it all, joyously 
confused as he had been when he had 
spoken to her in the pasture. Then 
he measured off forty feet and drove 
his second stake. 

He worked that morning until break- 
fast, and then took up the regular toil 
of the day. That evening, after he 
had done his milking and fed and 
watered the stock for the night, he 
came back to the crest of the hill. It 
was then that his father came up and 
began to question. 

"What ye about, Nat?" he asked. 

Without stopping, Nat answered 

" I'm building a house. " 

"A house?" queried the father. 

"A house," answered Nat. 

For a few moments his father 
watched him curiously. He couldn't 

"Be ye goneter get married?" the 
father finally asked. 

"Yes," answered Nat. 

"To the schoolmarm?" 





"I don't know. I haven't asked 
her yet." 

Joshua sat down on a rock and 
lighted his pipe. With his elbows on 
his knees, he looked on until dark. 
When Nat picked up his tools to leave, 
his father joined him. 

"Thar's room enough to home," said 
his father. 

"Not for Julie and me," answered 

When Mrs. Page heard, her eyes 
grew moist. 

"She'll make ye a good wife," she 

The next morning again at dawn, 
Nat turned the first shovelful of earth. 
That night his father appeared again 
and offered to help. But Nat refused 
the offer. From cellar to attic he had 
determined that this should be the 
work of his hands and his alone. And 
so the father sat and watched Nat 
struggle with a rock that weighed half 
a ton; saw him heave and strain till 
the veins on his forehead swelled into 

"Don't be a tarnation fool," said 
the father, as Nat paused. 

The old man rose to throw his weight 
on the end of the lever. Nat shook 
his head. 

"Leave it be!" he ordered. 

Joshua sat down, and in the end saw 
the rock toppled over into place. He 
saw the sweat and the strain, but he 
couldn't see the joy. Day after day 
he watched, and saw with admiration 
feats of strength that would have tested 
the capacity of any other two men in 
town, but that was all he saw. He un- 
derstood no more of the deep happiness 
of the fight than a man can understand 
that which lies below and hallows and 
soothes the travail of a woman in labor. 
He saw his son grow leaner than ever, 
saw his forearms grow as hard as the 
hind legs of an ox, and saw the foun- 
dation laid and the floor timbers in 
place before the end of the month. 

Every Sunday Nat harnessed up the 
colt and drove to St. Croix. There he 
was received by the father and mother 
of Julie Moulton as one of the family. 
There he was received by Julie at first 

with some uneasiness, but later, as he 
did not refer again to the talk in the 
pasture, with a certain eagerness. He 
came like a breeze from the top of 
Eagle, and he freshened up her mem- 
ory of 'Gene. 

Nat liked the evenings best. Then the 
four of them used to gather on the big 
granite slabs that made the front stoop; 
Julie cuddling against her mother's 
side on the top step, and Nat and Silas 
below. Nat often sat so near to her 
that his elbow brushed her white skirt. 
The older people grew reminiscent at 
such times, and Mrs. Moulton told 
much of her early life in the convent at 
Montreal. Sometimes Julie sang the 
songs her mother had learned there and 
had taught her. They were light 
French chansons, and her voice was 
well suited to them. Nat couldn't 
understand the words, but that didn't 
matter. The music was enough. It 
expressed a great deal of what was in 
his own heart, and left him more eager 
than ever to get back to his house. He 
learned many of the tunes and often 
whistled them while at work. 

In this way the summer passed and 
the house took form. It was unlike 
anything to be seen within a hundred 
miles of St. Croix. On the first floor 
there was one big room with a large 
stone fireplace, and off this a little 
room for the kitchen. Upstairs, again, 
there was only one big room where 
there should have been three or four. 
Around three sides of the house was a 
piazza ten feet deep. The building, 
instead of facing the road as every 
honest house should, fronted nothing 
but the valley and the mountains. 

By the first week in September the 
roof had been shingled, the sides clap- 
boarded, and the windows all put in. 
This left nothing to be done but the 
finish of the interior. Still Nat told 
Julie nothing about his house. He had 
no idea of making a secret of it, but it 
didn't seem to matter just now whether 
she knew or not. He wished to have it 
ready, that was all. When she came 
back to school, she would see for her- 
self and this would save words. 

School was to open the second Mon- 



day in September, and that week Nat 
worked harder than ever. With the 
aid of lamps he worked far into the 
night in his anxiety to have the house 
all done to show her when she re- 
turned. His father thought his son 
had lost his wits. He rose from a 
troubled sleep one evening, dressed, 
and went up there. It was almost 
eleven. Nat was just finishing the plas- 
tering of the ceiling. 

"Any one'd think ye 
git married to-morrer," 

"So?" answered Nat. 

He resetd his arm a 
ached from finger-tip 

"Be ye?" persisted the old man 

"No," answewed Nat. 

"When then?" 

"I don't know." 

"Won't she set the day?" 


Nat resumed his work. 

"Let me finish thet for ye 

was goneter 
scowled his 

moment. It 
to shoulder- 

said his 

"I'll have it done in another hour," 
answered Nat. 

His arm cast fantastic shadows on 
the walls. Joshua watched them with 
an uncanny feeling. Without another 
word he remained there until Nat fin- 
ished and blowing out the lights stag- 
gered back home. 

The next morning was Sunday, the 
day he was to go to St. Croix and drive 
her home. He rose at dawn and raked 
up the space around the house and swept 
all the floors. The rooms were barren 
enough without furniture, but when 
the sun flooded in they looked very 
warm and tidy. It didn't take a very 
vivid imagination ro supply the chairs 
and tables, especially when he knew 
just where he was to get them. In three 
weeks there was to be an auction at the 
Lovell place, and he figured that he 
had just about money enough left to 
buy there the things he needed. If 
possible, he meant to persuade Julie to 
drive over with him and help pick 
them out. 

That forenoon Nat hitched the colt 



in the two-seated wagon, so that there 
would be plenty of room behind for 
her trunk. It was a fair crisp day, with 
the smell of nuts in the air, and he went 
over the road to St. Croix as though 
behind a Pegasus. Julie's trunk was 
all packed, and she was dressed in a 
new dark-blue suit. With the ex- 
citement of the journey in prospect 
coloring her cheeks, she looked very 
much like a bride. Nat was too im- 
patient to be off to enjoy his dinner, 
though for the occasion Mrs. Moul- 
ton had quite outdone herself. It 
seemed to him that the meal would 
never end. Even after this Julie was 
an hour in getting together odds and 
ends before she was ready to take his 
hand and mount the seat beside him. 
In spite of all these delays they were 
on the road by three o'clock. It was the 
first time they had been alone together 
since that afternoon in the pasture. 
Both were conscious of this fact. They 
did not speak until they had left the 
scattering houses behind and had 
plunged into the first long silent stretch 
of fragrant pines. Then Julie relaxed 
a little from her stiff position by Nat's 
side, and looking up to see what he 
was about, found his eyes upon her. 

"It seems good to be taking you 
back, Julie, "he said. 

"I'm not getting back; I'm going 
away," she reminded him. 

" I always think of you as gettin' back 
when you come near Eagle," he said. 

She looked away uneasily. There 
was a steady self-confident air about 
him that disturbed her. She couldn't 
say it displeased her, but at the same 
time it made her decidedly uncom- 
fortable. It made her distinctly con- 
scious of his bigness and, in proportion, 
of her own weakness. 

"I'm getting back to school, if that's 
what you mean," she answered feebly. 

"You're gettin' back home," he 

"But I'm not, Nat," she insisted, as 
though, if she did not make this per- 
fectly clear, he might by some magic 
make it a reality. 

"Do you remember what I told ye 
before I came away?" 

"I remember that I told you to for- 
get all you said," she answered. 

"Ye might as well have told me to 
stop breathing," he answered. 

She glanced up at him and found 
his eyes full upon her. They did not 
flinch. With a flush she turned away 
from them. They were wonderfully 
clear eyes. They differed from 'Gene's 
in that there was never any mystery 
about them. She shivered a little, and 
he tucked the buffalo robe more tightly 
about her. There was something in- 
finitely tender in the very motions of 
his hand. She smiled her thanks at him. 

It was this which encouraged him 
to confide in her a bit of news second 
in importance to the house alone. 

"The judge has taken my notes for 
that pine on Eagle." 

"Good!" she exclaimed. "Then 
you'll be your own boss this winter? " 

"This winter, anyhow," he an- 

"What do you mean by that?" she 
asked, for his face had grown sober. 

"I've got a little less than an even 
chance to win out," he answered. 

"If you have that much of a chance, 
I'll bet on you, Nat," she replied sin- 

"To meet the notes I've got to get a 
lot of timber down the mountain, into 
the river, and down the river before 
the water drops." 

"You will, you will," she answered 
eagerly, catching the inspiration of the 

This was just the sort of thing any 
one would back him to do. She saw 
that even as he voiced his difficulties 
to her, his jaws came together. 

"Yes," he said, "I'll do it." 

His eyes had been leveled straight 
ahead, and now they turned to meet 
hers. They brought her heart to her 
throat and left her tingling all over. 
She felt the thrill of one who for the 
first time handles the lever of some 
powerful machine. 

"But I shall want you with me," he 

She started. 

"I'll be with you all I can," she an- 



"I don't think I'd have tried if it 
hadn't been for you." 

"For me? Why, Nat, why—" 

"If it hadn't been for you," he 
repeated, and turned away his eyes. 

She was very silent the rest of the 
journey. She was afraid to speak, al- 
most afraid to think. Her thoughts 
went wild. If she had been alone, she 
would have sung to relieve her feel- 
ings. So they came to the foot of Hio 
Hill, and the wagon began to creak up 
the long incline. As they neared the 
schoolhouse, he said: 

"That's been a mighty lonesome- 
looking building since you left." 

She glanced swiftly beyond, to the 
place where she had said good by to 
'Gene. She was half in hope that she 
could pass that spot now without 
emotion, but she found herself turning 
first cold, then hot. She edged a 
little away from Nat and sat very 
erect. She felt like jumping out and 
running into the woods, but the horse 
plodded steadily on, like Fate. And 
like some fateful mirror, she saw once 
again every detail of that hour when 
she had let herself go into the strong 
arms of 'Gene. The memory of it 
made her feel faint. She closed her 

eyes — closed them tight — and forced 
herself to remember not only that, but 
all that led up to it and the promise at 
the end. She did not open them again 
until the horse drew up into the yard 
and she heard Nat's voice. There 
was a quality in it which brought her 
very quickly to herself. 

"This," he said, "this is yours — 
when ye want it, Julie. " 

She was staring, not at the Miller 
house, but at a new building on the 
crest of the hill. It was long and low 
and it faced the west. It was just 
such a house as she had dreamed about, 
just such a house as a bride might 
dream about. 

She clutched Nat's arm. 

"What do you mean?" she de- 

"I built it for you this summer." 

"You— you— " 

But her eyes grew misty and her 
voice choked. 

"Want to go in and look at it?" he 
asked eagerly. 

She drew a deep breath. Then she 
answered quickly: 

"No, no, no. I — I wouldn't dare, 
Nat. I wouldn't clare. Please turn 
round — right now. " 

(To be continued) 

Wendell Phillips 


" He stood upon the world's broad threshold" 

'"A sower of infinite seed was he, a woodman that hewed to the line." 

A DOWN the dim far-away vista 
of time that takes me back 
to the golden days of my Bos- 
ton home, the ancient Brim- 
mer School on Common Street stands 
most vividly within my memory. Pass- 
ing, as we did daily, up and down the 
crooked street, with the admonishing 
clock tower of the Hollis Street Church 
peering at us over the roofs of the 
houses, to the somber school building 
near the corner of Washington Street, 
I again see a venerable figure stepping 
out of one of the old-fashioned houses 
on the opposite side of the street, — a 
figure erect and stately, a head of 
grayish hair, a face whose features 
were clear cut and strong. He was a 
newcomer on the little street. 

One day the master said to us, " Boys, 
if some morning you meet an elderly 
gentleman walking along the street, 
salute him in a friendly manner, for he 
is one of the honored men of Boston, 
and has devoted his life to the cause 
of justice, liberty, and humanity. 
Boys, Wendell Phillips has come to 
dwell within this neighborhood." 

How we thrilled at the news and the 
thought of his being in our midst! 
Wendell Phillips, of whom we had 
heard so much, whose speeches were 
among our choicest reading lessons, 
whose name was associated with that 
of William Lloyd Garrison, Theodore 
Parker, and the freedom of the slaves. 
And with what awe we gazed upon his 
strong yet lovable face as we would 
pass him upon the street bidding him 
"good day" and receiving his kindly 
greeting in return. 

Wendell Phillips was of the bluest 
of New England blood. Born a Bos- 
tonian, November 29, 1811, in the 
large mansion that stood at the corner 
of Beacon and Walnut Streets. His 
ancestors had come over in the good 

ship Arabella which crossed the At- 
lantic in the wake of the Mayflower. 
Following in the footsteps of his fore- 
bears, where in each generation there 
had been a minister of the gospel, he, 
like them, was to have become a clergy- 
man. He enjoyed the advantages of 
the best schools of his native city, en- 
tered Harvard where he graduated 
with high honors in 1831; after which 
he studied law and was admitted to the 
Suffolk bar in 1834. 

It was during the era of the first 
great antislavery excitement, when 
the whole country being in arms 
against the slave power, he witnessed 
the indignities heaped upon men like 
Garrison that the old patriotic, free- 
dom-loving blood, which had made his 
acnestors among the foremost of the 
patriots of the Revolution, was stirred 
within him. 

He threw himself into the front of 
the battle against slavery, and for 
thirty years and more fought oppres- 
sion, putting aside for it a brilliant 
future in his profession and made op- 
position to slavery the great business 
of his life. 

The incident that led to his becom- 
ing an abolitionist happened when one 
day he attended a meeting at Faneuil 
Hall and heard the Attorney General 
of the State of Massachusetts vindi- 
cate the murder of Lovejoy in Illinois, 
who had been shot down while in de- 
fence of his property, the printing 
press, trying to maintain, at fearful 
odds, freedom of thought, freedom of 
speech, and freedom of the press. 

Standing among the auditors young 
Wendell Phillips, unknown to fame, 
listened with indignation, and when 
the Attorney General retired sprang 
to the platform only to be met with 
hostile protestations by the partisans 
of the attorney, but he met this ex- 



pression of disapproval with a calm 
front and a voice that was serene, re- 
buking the recreant American — the 
slanderer of the dead. At this the 
uproar became furious and for a mo- 
ment it seemed as if violence would 
follow. Friends quieted the mob- 
1 ike audience and Phillips proceeded. 
His slight speech delivered and the 
orator was born. This put him at 
once into the front rank of the speakers 
of the day. The martyrdom of Love- 
joy caused Wendell Phillips to con- 
secrate himself to the advocacy of 
human rights. 

He became the most polished and 
graceful of orators our country had 
ever produced. He spoke very quietly, 
as if talking to people in his own parlor, 
yet he had a great power over all kinds 
of audiences. Often called to speak 
before howling mobs, he never failed 
to subdue them. At one time before 
an audience in Boston, the majority 
of whom were exceedingly hostile, 
yelling and singing and completely 
drowning his utterances, reporters 
were seated below the platform and 
Phillips turned to them and bending 
low seemed to be speaking in a low 
tone to them. By and by the curi- 
osity of the audience was excited, they 
ceased their clamor and tried to hear 
what he was saying to the reporters. 
Phillips looked at them and said 
quietly: "Go on, gentlemen, go on. I 
do not need your ears. Through these 
pencils I speak to thirty millions of 
people." Not a voice was raised 
again. The mob had found its master 
and stayed whipped until he sat down. 

As an orator Wendell Phillips stood 
alone; his style was unique, and yet 
eloquent as he was as a speaker he was 
far more effective as a debater; here 
all his fire and verve were brought to 
the surface. His lectures were of ex- 
ceeding interest, whether the subject 
was literary or on the matter of 
the day. His speeches were always 
couched in the choicest words of the 
English language, carrying all before 
him. The man was greater than his 
speech. The lightning of his righteous 
wrath was terrible. It smote his an- 

tagonists with certain death. Yet he 
remained cool and self-possessed. He 
never hesitated for a word or failed to 
employ the one best fitted to express 
his thought on the point in question. 

During his youth, when first he 
mounted the platform, his style was 
ornate and picturesque. On his re- 
turn from a European trip, after wit- 
nessing the disgraceful position the 
United States had been brought into 
by the refusal of the then minister to 
France to sign a treaty for the aboli- 
tion of the slave-trade, he spoke as 
follows : 

"As I stood on the shores of Genoa, 
and saw our beautiful American ship, 
the Ohio, floating on the placid Medit- 
erranean, with her masts tapering 
proportionally aloft, her pennon flying, 
and an eastern sun reflecting her grace- 
ful form upon the sparkling waters, 
attracting the gaze of the multitude 
on the shore, I thought the scene one 
to pride any American to think him- 
self an American; but when I thought 
that, in all probability, the first time 
that gallant ship should gird on her 
gorgeous apparel, and wake from be- 
neath her sides her dormant thunder, 
it would be in defense of the African 
slave-trade, I could but blush, and 
hang my head, to think myself an 

Severe as is the criticism in these 
enlightened days when a man like 
Theodore Roosevelt dares to show 
his respect and appreciation for the 
colored man, what must it have meant 
in those days of personal danger? 
Wendell Phillips deliberately put him- 
self out in trying to help and shield 
the negro. His silver tongue was ever 
ready in his defense. He was once 
asked the price of a lecture, he answered, 
"One hundred dollars and expenses if 
on a literary subject; free of charge 
if upon slavery." If ever the colored 
man had a friend, he was theirs and his 
name should be deeply graven within 
their hearts. He took his place with 
the lowly and despised, and to their 
cause gave his time, his money, and his 
eloquence. Frederick Douglas, in pay- 
ing a glowing tribute to Wendell 



Phillips, says: "The cause of the slave 
had many advocates, many of them 
were able and very eloquent; but it 
had only one Wendell Phillips." 

One time when this same represent- 
ative of the colored race, entering a 
railway train in company with Mr. 
Phillips, was requested to leave that 
particular car, Mr. Phillips quietly 
arose and went with him into the "Jim 
Crow" car, saying, "Douglas, if you 
cannot ride with me, I can ride with 
you." He never failed to give pe- 
cuniary assistance to the colored stu- 
dents and in every way possible tried 
to be of help to them. 

The following extract is from a 
eulogy delivered by Frederick Douglas 
and gives one a slight idea what it 
meant in those days to espouse the 
cause of the negro: 

"Daniel Webster once said, 'Any 
man can do an agreeable duty, but 
not every man can do a disagreeable 
duty.' After slavery struck at the 
life of the nation, after it had crippled 
and killed thousands of our sons and 
brothers on the battlefield, after it had 
rent asunder the nation at the center, 
and imperiled the existence if the Re- 
public, it was easy to be an anti- 
slavery man; but when slavery ruled 
both the State and the Church, when 
it commanded the support of both 
press and pulpit and wielded the purse 
and sword of the nation, when he who 
dared to speak in favor of the abolition 
of slavery lost caste in society, made 
himself of no reputation, and exposed 
his person and property to violence 
and peril, — to espouse this cause at 
such a time was not an agreeable duty, 
but one that required the noblest 
qualities of head and heart." 

Wendell Phillips always spoke of his 
wife as his great aid and assistant. 
He used to say she preceded him in 
everything. She was a peace woman 
before he was. She was his Egeria, 
his counselor, his guide. It was she 
who made him an abolitionist, as he 
often told those about him. It was 
her suggestions, the promptings of 
wifely devotedness and womanly in- 
tuition, that inspired him to utter his 

loftiest and bravest words in those 
dark days of the great antislavery 
contest. It was his affection for her 
that gave added tenderness and pathos 
to his pleas for the suffering slave. 
His devotion and kindness to her, who 
for years had been an invalid, was 
beautiful to witness, and his desire was 
to outlive her so that he might min- 
ister to her until the end. 

During a lecture tour he wrote from 
Iowa, the far West: "I, the traveler, 
the elderly gentleman, have been — 
kissed, in Illinois! Put that into your 
pipe and smoke it, if you can without 
choking your envious soul. Yes, 
kissed! ! On a public platform, in 
front of a depot, the whole world 
envying me. 'Who did it?' you ask? 
It was an old man of seventy-three 
years, a veteran abolitionist, a lovely 
old saint. In the early days of the 
cause we used to kiss each other like 
the early Christians, and when he saw 
me he resumed the habit." 

For over forty years Mr. Phillips 
lived in a house on Essex Street, the 
old-time residence district of Boston, 
but finally the exigencies of trade 
compelled him to leave the spot where 
he had so long resided, and in sorrow 
he removed his household gods into 
a small house on Common Street, not 
far from the corner of Tremont Street. 
From that day his heart failed him; 
he grew old fast, and there he died, after 
a short illness, on February 2, 1884. 

All Boston mourned when it heard 
the sad tidings, and wreaths of ivy 
were laid upon the casket of the man 
who, while alive, was reviled, but 
reverenced and adored when dead. 
Those eloquent lips were silenced. 
But the lips of his friends were un- 
sealed, and from everywhere, over 
the country at large, came expressions 
of sorrow and esteem. Said Julia Ward 

"Golden-mouthed Phillips is dead, 
Whose eloquence charmed even his 

Whose whisper restrained great as- 
The most finished orator of our time." 



Funeral services were held at the 
Hollis Street Unitarian Church, one of 
the oldest edifices in Boston and sacred 
to the memory of John Pierpont, Starr 
King, and Francis Jackson; the services 
were simple but deeply effective. At 
their conclusion the body was rever- 
ently borne to Faneuil Hall, the streets 
thronged with mourners all the way. 
Arriving at the hall, it lay in state, 
while the people of Boston, old and 
young, white and black, crowded the 
square, sorrowfully entering the build- 
ing and slowly passing the casket for 
one last look at the kindly face of 
Wendell Phillips. Late in the after- 
noon the remains were carried to the 

old Granary Bur^ing-grpund, where 

in the ancient family vault all that 
remained of Wendell Phillips was 
laid at rest. Not a word was spoken 
at the grave, the vast crowd by 
its silence testifying its honest trib- 
ute of respect to the memory of the 

"One day, a living king, he faced a 

Of critic foes: over the dead king 

A throng of friends who yesterday 

were those 
Who thought themselves, and whom 

the world thought, foes." 

The First Rocking Chair 


WOULD you like to hear about 
that priceless curiosity 
which is carefully preserved 
in one of the Old Colony 
houses that dates back over two hun- 
dred years? I hear you ask, Did it 
come over in the Mayflower? and I 
answer, it had not the honor. No 
such invention to promote indolence 
for the lazy or rest for the weary was 
then known. I am told that few are 
found in England, and those are un- 
used by English people, and are called 
" American chairs." 

It was in the year 1780 that it was 
first thought of and fashioned in those 
early days of the Pilgrim Colony. The 
lady of the house, widow of Deacon 
Wrestling Brewster, was an invalid, 
obliged to occupy a chair much of the 
time, and as they were stiff and hard 
one of the farm hands pitied her. He 
bethought him of the rocking of a 
cradle. Why could he not make for 
that delicate sufferer a little more 
comfort? Cutting circular pieces of 
wood he attached them to the legs of 
her chair and behold, it rocked! Not 
much of a sweep to be sure, but he had 
become an inventor. He had made 
the "first rocking chair." It is now 
an heirloom. 

There are other ancient relics at the 
old house at Woodside. — that is the 
name by which the place is now known. 
One is a very precious book of ex- 
cellent sermons from which Elder 
William Brewster of the Mayflower 
preached to his devoted congregation. 
He, not being an ordained minister, 
read from printed sermons. The vol- 
ume is doubly prized by his descend- 
ants, for it contains marginal notes 
written by the hand of that brave and 
godly man who led his little band of 
followers through their troublous 
journeyings in the old world safely to 
this their new land. 

The coming of the old house into the 
Brewster family is interesting. Built 
by Major William Bradford (son of 
William Bradford, governor of the Pil- 
grim Colony) for his daughter who 
married Lieutenant Holmes, and in 
which in 1697 their son Ephraim was 
born. The earliest date found concern- 
ing the homestead is that birth. 

In 1741 Ephraim Holmes exchanged 
the dwelling for that of Deacon Wrest- 
ling Brewster, "both being satisfied," 
the deed declared. The homestead 
that had been Deacon Wrestling's, as 
he was called, was situated in the woods 
where his wife feared Indians. I have 




spoken of her being an invalid, having 
much of the time to keep her chair. 
A friend has told us that in her school 
days the picture of the "first chair" 
was in the history she studied, where 
there, too, she learned this pretty story, 
that the husband changed houses so 
his wife would be enabled to sit and 
watch him working over "his broad 
acres." We would be pleased to find 
that history. When the friend first 
visited Woodside and saw the old chair 
she recognized it and told us the tale. 
Another reason for the moving has 
been given, that the deacon liked to 
live near salt water as an easy access 
to fish and clams. A very good reason, 
but the other is more sentimental and 
we like to believe it. Possibly both 
are correct. 

Deacon Wrestling built an addition 
to the house, and Thomas Brewster, 
his son, added a T. The lower room 

at the right as you enter the 
front door has not been altered, 
possessing the paneling, beading 
and inside wooden folding win- 
dow shutters, also paneled. Other 
rooms are paneled in various 
ways, all have large beams across 
the low studded ceilings. The 
small window panes, door-latches 
and high poster bedsteads with 
valance and tester are mostly 
retained. The quaint narrow 
staircase and small, inconvenient 
"front entry" are curious in this 
day of roomy dwellings. But 
the joys brought by the exchange 
of homes must be seen to be ap- 
preciated. Situated upon a hill, 
sheltered by woods of oak and 
fragrant pine at the north, while 
the sunny front exposure looks 
down over fields, the ever vary- 
ing tide as it ebbs and flows 
through black-grass meadows, 
Abram's Hill crowned by the 
pretty village of Kingston, Mass., 
and beyond, the historic town 
of Plymouth backed by the 
purple hills of Manomet reach- 
ing into the ocean. "Captain's 
Hill," that sturdy wind-swept 
promontory of Duxbury Bay, 
you cannot overlook. Upon the 
summit stands the shaft which 
raises into view the bronze image of 
the doughty captain of the Pilgrims, 
whose home was upon that hill. 
The homestead of their elder, 
William Brewster, was also there 
after he left Plymouth. When 
children we used to visit Mr. 
Marshall Soule, who lived at the 
"old Brewster house." Mr. Soule, 
being an antiquarian, was a fitting 
keeper of the relic. I am thankful 
he cannot know that it has been 
permitted to decay, leaving not a 
vestige to mark the spot where once 
dwelt that faithful Pilgrim leader, 
not even a tablet! 

Will not the loyal Brewsters 
arouse and do justice to their noble 
minded, gentle hearted, and cour- 
ageous souled ancestor, not allow- 
ing the descendants of other May- 


flower colonists to excel us in our 

It seems of interest to add that the 
invalid wife of Deacon Wrestling 
Brewster was a descendant of Ray 

Thomas, whose farm afterward was 
purchased by Daniel Webster. The 
mother of Ray Thomas was the first 
American lady presented to the court 
of King James. 


Recent Songs by American Women 



FOR several seasons the name of 
Marion Bauer has appeared 
on the concert programs of 
some of the greatest singers 
whom we have heard. Miss Bauer's 
"Light" has been sung with much 
success by Mme. Schumann-Heink 
and by Sig. Bonci; Mme. Gerville- 
Reache and Maurice Renaud both 
sang Miss Bauer's "Nocturne" last 
season. The real significance of these 
facts, however, is that for the amateur 
singer these songs are ones that are 
tangible, — entirely within the capa- 
bilities of the singer of modest attain- 
ments. Though of French parentage, 
Miss Bauer was born in Walla Walla, 
Washington; she was brought up in a 
Western military post. At least two 
of her songs show how sympathetically 
her sensitive imagination was kindled 
by this contact with the life of the real 
West, — her "Red Man's Requiem" 
and "The Coyote Song" are so full of 
the spirit of the plains that they are 

each typical of the experience which 
they represent. "Send me a Dream" 
is a beautiful romantic lyric and one 
which is much liked because of its 
soulful melody. The words are by 
Miss Bauer's sister and it is dedicated 
to Mme. Gluck. 

"Send me a kream from the Dream 
And then perhaps I may know 
How the leaves of pale green 
Get their delicate sheen 
And the fragrant pink blossoms grow. 

"Send me a dream from the Dream 
And then perhaps I may hear 
Some sweet song in the shells 
Of the mermaid who tells 
Her secret in tones silver clear. 

" Send me a dream from the Dream 
And then perhaps I may feel 



Just a tear from the sky 
As it passes me by, 
And the grief in the earth to conceal. 

" Send me a dream from the Dream 

And then perhaps I may see 

In the tremulous glow 

Both above and below 
The light that is shining for me." 

"Over the Hills" is more simple in 
style and is very effective because of 
its fervor and its sympathetic adapta- 
tion. The words are by Paul Law- 
rence Dunbar. "Star Trysts" is more 
elaborate. George Harris has used 
this song in New York repeatedly and 
he has frequent requests for this num- 
ber and for "Send me a Dream." This 
latter song, together with "Over the 
Hills," "Light," and "Nocturne," is 
sure of extensive studio and home use 
because they are effective and what 
one might call grateful bits of artistic 
song writing. 

The thoroughly musical quality of 
Mary Turner Salter's songs is so well 
known, especially to New Englanders, 
that whatever she contributes to the 
song world is sure to attract. Mrs. 
Salter was born in Peoria, Illinois, and 

began her career as a singer in the 
West. Later she studied in Boston 
and New York under Mme. Ruders- 
dorf, the mother of Richard Mansfield. 
Mrs. Salter became prominent as a 
concert and oratorio singer. 

Mrs. Salter's deep feeling, rare 
musical instinct, poetic imagination, 
and her knowledge of the voice have 
been the forces which have made her 
work so satisfactory and so full of 
recompense to the singer. Mrs. Salter 
has been a church singer and a concert 
singer, and her sacred songs and her 
secular songs show the results of her 
comprehensive experience, because she 
has never allowed the beauty of her 
ideas to roam upon heights that are 
impracticable for the singer. "My 
Dear" and "The Sweet of the Year" 
are sure to always be counted among 
the best American lyrics. "My 
Dear" is full of tenderness and feeling 
and its andant? espressivo is signifi- 
cant of its feeling-ful mood. 

" One deep and loving thought of you 
To stay with me the long hours thro', 
To brighten day that else were drear, 
My dear." 

"The Sweet of the Year" is the 

>f- i\ 



mood of a more eager, a more animated 
joy and its molto animato fairly darts 
and flashes with joy. The "Song of 
Agamede" — the song which Agamede 
sings to the tree which grows on the 
grave of her little son — is a song of 
yearning anguish which is tremen- 
dously effective; the last stanza is 

"Die, die, thou little tree, 
And be as all sweet things must be; 
Deep where thy petals drift, 
I, too, would rest, would rest, — 
The changing seasons through." 

"The young Musician" is a clever 
child's song and it has an innocent 
humor which makes both the words 
(by Louise Ayers Garnett) and the 
music attractive. The two sacred 
songs, "I Lay my Sins on Jesus" and 
"There is a Blessed Home," are among 
the most satisfactory of recent sacred 
songs suitable for church or home use. 

Miss Mabel Daniels is another New 
England woman whose song writing 
has been successful. She was born in 
Swampscott, Mass., and is a graduate 
of Radcliffe College, where she was 
prominent as leader of the Glee Club 
and the composer of three operettas 
for women's voices. Her book, en- 
titled "An American Girl in Munich — 
Impressions of a Music Student," gives 
an interesting account of her studies 
in Germany, and it is profitable read- 
ing for all who are thinking of studying 
abroad. Her song for high or low 
voice, entitled "Villa of Dreams," was 
awarded the Custer Memorial Prize 
by the National Federation of Musical 
Clubs. The words are by Arthur 
Symons. The song has especial har- 

monic beauty and freshness. Two 
three-part songs for women's voices — 
"Eastern Song" and "The Voice of my 
Beloved" — were awarded the Brush 
Memorial Prize and they are sure to 
have an extensive use. "Daybreak" 
is one of the most spontaneous and 
joyful outbursts of love that could be 
imprisoned in song. This song has been 
sung by Miss Lilla Ormond with great 
success. It is written for soprano or 
tenor, mezzo soprano or baritone. 
"The Lady of Dreams" is a lullaby of 
dainty and melodious fancy. Three 
Irish songs "An Irish Coquette," "In 
the Dark," and "The Fields of Bally 
Clare," are full of the directness of feel- 
ing that is characteristic of folk- 

It is refreshing and a real pleasure 
to notice how markedly the songs of 
each of these six women have an in- 
dividuality all their own. There is 
real artisitc beauty about each song 
which I have mentioned, and it would 
be hard to choose from among them. 
Incidentally, two songs by Gena Brans- 
combe ought not be overlooked. A 
"Serenade" (I send my heart up to 
thee) has been made familiar to us by 
Paul Dufault. The words are from 
"In a Gondola" by Robert Browning, 
and Miss Branscombe has been most 
sympathetically true to their mood. 
It is a song of only two pages, but it is 
a bit of beautiful song and very "sing- 
able." " Sleep, then, ah sleep," by Miss 
Branscombe, is another gem of soulful 
and sustained melody. The words 
are by Richard Le Gallienne and the 
song has been sung by David Bispham 
and by Mme. Gadski with repeated 

Birds of the Month 

Field Secretary of the Massachusetts Aubudon Society 

(Birds of the Month will be a regular feature of the magazine. It is 
designed to call especial attention to the esthetic and economical value of 
our wild birds, the need of protecting them, and the work done for their 
welfare by the Audubon Society.) 

THE typical bird of December is 
the junco. Coming to us 
with gray skies and the chill 
of snow, his colors are of both. 
It is as if the gray of winter skies had 
dropped a little cloak for his shoulders, 
one that he wears quite jauntily above 
his waistcoat which matches the white 
of the snow over which he flits so 
cheerily. For neither zero gales nor 
deep drifts bring dismay to this six-inch 
wanderer in winter fields. He may 
have been born on the bleak hills of 
Labrador, or above the tree line on the 
summits of the White Mountains, or 
even on the lesser hills of northern New 
England, and he may wander in the 
dead of winter as far south as the Gulf 
States, but wherever he is he is cheery, 
self-reliant, and amply able to take care 
of himself. 

In late September he came down 
from the north or from the hills, and, 
in the three southern New England 
States at least, he will glean in coppice 
and shrubbery until mid-April. For 
the junco is of the sparrow tribe and 
with his conical, flesh-colored bill is a 
most industrious eater of seeds. For 
him the birches have been growing all 
summer long their little cylindrical 
cones which open little by little after 
the first frosts and scatter seed for 
him on each new fall of snow until 
springtime. For him the golden-rod 
and aster, the wild grasses and the 
weeds of cultivated fields and gardens 
hold stout stems above the crust and 
scatter manna at every new dawn. 
And in his flocks come the tree-spar- 
rows and the few field and song spar- 
rows which may winter here, sure that 
long experience has taught him where 
the fattest larder lies widest open. 

We have two snowbirds, so called, 
in New England. One the snow-bunt- 
ing, which is the only one of our spar- 
row-like birds to have white predomi- 
nating in its wings and tail as well as 
on its body. This bird is born in the 
very Arctic and is the little white bird 
so common in our northern three 
States in winter, but which only oc- 
casionally comes down into Massa- 
chusetts and Connecticut. The other 
is the junco. 

Climbing the summit cone of Mount 
Washington one sunny day in early 
July, at a point near the top where 
the ascent was so steep that I needed 
to use both fingers and toes, a junco 
flew out right in my face from beneath 
an overhanging rock. Behind her, 
cleverly placed in a hole among the 
grasses, was her nest, of rootlets and 
moss, lined with fine grass and feathers 
and, snugly tucked in among the 
feathers, four pale bluish-white eggs, 
marked with reddish brown. No bird 
ever nested higher than this in New 
England, nor does any other bird nest 
as high anywhere in our good old six 
States. The eggs were perfectly 
sheltered from cold, in their deep 
hollow, snugly packed in solt feathers 
and grasses, and the nest was ad- 
mirably placed, not only for conceal- 
ment from possible enemies, but for 
protection from inclement weather. 
Let the wind blow as hard as it might — 
and no place in New England gets 
quite such gales — ■ beneath the rock, 
in the tiny hollow among the grasses, 
no draft could reach. Let the 
snow fall if it would, and it may come 
deep even in junco nesting-time on the 
summit of Mount Washington, no 
drift could lie across the face of that 



sheer cliff. Torrential rains might 
send the water cascading down the 
cliff, but the jutting rock, like a pent- 
roof, would shunt any flood and leave 
the nest dry and safe. There the 
young juncos opened their eyes on a 
wider outlook than any other bird sees 
for the first time, while their father 
trilled his defiant little home song from 
a near-by crag. 

I found a nest similarly skillfully 
placed on the trail over Adams toward 
the Madison hut, and near the Lakes 
of the Clouds, over on the hill between 
Washington and Monroe were others. 
Indeed these little drab birds, whose 
white outer tail feathers are so con- 
spicuous in flight, and whose flesh- 
colored, conical bills stand conspicu- 
ously out among their gray feathers 
while they sit at rest, nest numerously 
over all the summits of the Presi- 
dential Range. The region would be 
lonesome without them in July. 

The bleakness of winter comes early 
in the season up there, and by the 
twentieth of September their south- 
ward wanderings have brought them 
down into the latitude of Boston, 
where many of them will spend the 
winter. They bring with them all the 
jaunty fearlessness of mountaineers, 
and they sing, though the skies may 
lower and the cold bite, little joyous 
songs as they glean among the weed 
seeds in the pastures, hedgerows, and 
gardens. I do not like to have the 
barn grass and amaranth weeded too 
well from my garden in August and 
September, for I know well if these are 
left to grow tall and husky the juncos 
will come in flocks for their seeds all 
winter long. The songs they sing 
then are not the defiant trills of the 
nesting season but rather a twittering, 
almost canary-like jubilation which is 
very sweet to hear when skies are gray, 
the wind shrills mournfully and the 
white blanket of the snow lies over all 

With the juncos the winter chippies, 
otherwise known as tree-sparrows, 
stray through the shrubbery and fill 
their crops with such seeds as the 
juncos do not get. In the friendly 

rivalry I sometimes fancy that they 
divide the spoils, each species taking 
only the seeds he likes best, at least 
in time of plenty. Often when the 
snow is deepest I find the juncos feed- 
ing on the garden weeds while the tree- 
sparrows flock about the birches, de- 
vouring their tiny seeds which flip from 
the little cones along with the fleur-de- 
lis scales which hold them in. You 
will know the tree-sparrow from other 
brown, sparrow-like birds by the dark 
gray dimple in their otherwise light- 
gray breasts and by the white, or it 
often seems to me paler brown, bar 
on the darker brown of the wings. 
The tree-sparrow, or winter chippy 
as many love to call him, does not nest 
as high on Mount Washington as does 
the junco, but he braves the winter cold 
just as nonchalantly and like the junco 
he sometimes sings even in the dead of 
winter. It is as if the soul of a canary 
had found a voice in this blunt, brown 
bird of the barren hedgerows and white 
drifts, for out of the plain singer's 
throat comes the most delightful 
melody, very like that of a canary at 
his best, but finer and slenderer in 
quality, a joyful outpouring that does 
not seem to be for the world at large 
but rather for the bird himself, as if he 
counseled patience and cheerfulness 
in a song that was really meant only 
for his own ears. 

As the winter passes both birds sing 
their friendly folk-songs oftener until, 
when the impulse to move north comes 
to them, they are in full chorus, the 
notes ringing far louder and clearer 
than during the winter. 

Any or all of our winter visitants 
may be with us in December, but these 
two birds are commonest and may be 
made very friendly if we will but be 
friendly toward them. Often when 
the snow is deep both varieties come 
about the very door looking for food and 
eager for crumbs. They are seed eaters 
and will frequent weedy spots in the 
garden finding seeds day after day in 
places where one would think their 
gleaning had long ago taken the last 
one. Then, if we will put out chaff 
from the floor of the barn or indeed 



seeds of any sort we may have them 
for constant companions. 

Unless the work has been begun 
sooner, December is a fine month in 
which to begin systematic winter feed- 
ing of the wild birds. Beside the 
varieties mentioned in the foregoing one 
may expect as occasional visitors and 
perhaps intimate friends for months 
chickadees, brown creepers, downy 
and hairy woodpeckers, goldfinches, 
redpolls, white-breasted nuthatches, 
flickers, blue jays, crows, and perhaps 
crossbills, pine grosbeaks or even the 
rare and occasional evening grosbeaks. 
To get them scatter seeds in sheltered 
spots in the woods, then nearer home 
in several places and make a final best 
feeding place of all near the house in a 
place that can be watched from the 
windows. When the birds have be- 
come accustomed to follow the trail 
from the more distant feeding places 
to the one nearest home all but this 
may be gradually abandoned. Once 
the birds have definitely located a 
good feeding place they will come to it 
all winter long and may be made very 

All birds eat seeds and grain in the 
winter when other food is scarce, but 
to especially tempt the insectivorous 
birds like the chickadee and nuthatch, 

for instance, the same plan of a food 
trail from the woods to the dooryard 
should be followed, using suet securely 
fastened to the southerly side of tree 
trunks or limba. Chickadees thus 
tolled to the neighborhood of the house 
and made friendly secure of their wel- 
come often become so tame as to perch 
on the finger and take food from the 

This is a good time of year to put 
out bird boxes too. Home-made ones 
are good, if they are made right. If 
not they are worse than useless. 
Those which imitate the holes made 
by woodpeckers are best. Several 
firms now make a business of making 
scientifically correct bird boxes and 
giving full directions as to how to 
place them. These are not only right 
for birds, but are picturesque and add 
beauty to a country place. These in 
place now will be visited by the winter 
birds, perhaps used as shelter, and will 
be all ready for occupancy by the first 
arriving spring migrants. The spring 
is such a busy time with men as with 
birds that if we let the matter of put- 
ting up bird boxes go until then we 
are likely to let it get by us until the 
birds have chosen for the year, then 
of course it is too late. Let's do it 

New England Magazine 





FRONTISPIECE — Winter Sports 





THE GUARDIAN — A Serial. Chapter XVIII 








Frederick W. Burrows . 517 

Frederick Orin Bartlett. 529 

A Farmer . . . 532 

Eleanor Randall Stuart 540 

Ethel Syford . . . 544 

Ralph Davol . . 546 





Stockholders, Samuel M. Conant, Pawtucket, R. I.; Bertrand L. Chapman, New York City; James F. Bacon, Boston. 

Mortgagees, Frederick J. McLaughlin, Boston 

{Published tn accordance with postal regulations) 

Published monthly at $1.75 a year. Entered as Second Class Mail Matter at the Boston, Massachusetts, Post Office. 







New England Magazine 


JANUARY, 1913 

Number 5 

The Republican Party in 


THE Republican Party in Massa- 
chusetts had its origin in the 
hearts and consciences of men 
whose moral nature revolted 
at the idea that there could be property 
in man or any sufficient excuse for the 
enslavement of men of any color or 
race; whose sensibilities were shocked 
at the cruelties inflicted upon the 
unhappy Africans held as slaves in 
the Southern States of the Union; 
and whose devotion to the right, as 
they saw it, impelled them to adopt 
and support any lawful means for the 
restriction and final abolition of 
slavery in the United States. 

The opponents of slavery were found 
in every class and community of our 
Commonwealth, and in the ranks of 
every political party; and, while all 
were not of the same mind as to the 
best means to be adopted for its ex- 
tinction, yet the desire to do away 
with the evil was present with each. 
Those there were who believed in and 
advocated "immediate emancipation," 
regardless of political conditions or 
social complications; there were others 
still who, recognizing the rights of the 
slaveholder under the limitations and 
compromises of the Constitution of 
the United States, believed that only 
by moral agitation against its existence, 
and legislation which should prevent 
its extension into territory where it 
did not exist, could the cause be most 
effectively aided. The ideas of such 
men found exemplification in the so- 

called "Missouri Compromise" of 
1820, by the terms of which slavery 
was prohibited in any territory of the 
United States where it did not then 
exist, north of a certain well defined 
line, viz., thirty-six degrees and 
thirty minutes north latitude. Again 
there were others who, professing an 
abhorrence of the unclean thing, dep- 
recated any agitation which might 
offend the South and disturb the 
business relations of the two sections. 
This last class was in the popular 
language of that time aptly termed 

The Republican Party which, under 
that name, was started in one of the 
Western States in 1854, was but the 
successor to and the inheritor of the 
ideas and principles of men and parties 
of prior days. First among these was 
the so-called "Abolition Party," the 
party of "immediate and uncondi- 
tional emancipation," a party which 
claimed to be non-political in purpose, 
as that word is generally understood, 
and repudiated agitation of its prin- 
ciples through a special political as- 
sociation, hoping "to make it the 
interest of existing political parties 
to act upon abolition principles." 
There was, however, a section of the 
Abolitionists who felt otherwise, and 
organized "The Liberty Party," which 
in 1840 polled about seven thousand 
votes, and in the presidential cam- 
paign of 1844 had acquired such a 
following that in New York State it 




drew voters enough from the Whig 
Party to cause the loss of that State's 
electoral vote to Henry Clay, and so 
the loss of the presidency; for had 
Mr. Clay carried New York he, and 
not James K. Polk, would have been 
elected to that position. In 1848 was 
organized "The Free Soil Party," an 
antislavery body whose purpose and 
principles were substantially those of 
the Liberty Party and the Republican 
Party of later date. 

In the summer of 1854 the Repub- 
lican Party in Massachusetts was or- 
ganized. The times were propitious 
for it. The public conscience had 
been stirred by seeing fugitive slaves 
arrested, the courthouse in Boston 
in chains and garrisoned by the thugs, 
bullies, and pimps from Boston's dark- 
est parties who constituted the squad 
of deputy U. S. marshals hired to 
prevent any possible rescue of the 
fugitive, and to guard him, when he 
had been ordered back into slavery, to 
the national vessel which transported 
him to Virginia. It had seen this 
guard re-enforced by U. S. regular 
troops and marines from the National 
Navy Yard, who, with loaded muskets, 
cannon grape-shotted, and lighted 
linstocks, preceded and brought up 
the rear of the hollow square in the 
center of which the poor creature 
marched to his doom over the spot 
hallowed by the blood of Crispus 
Attucks and his fellow martyrs in the 
Boston massacre of March 5, 1770. 
And, more than all, the nation at 
large had seen in 1854 the wanton 
abrogation of the Missouri Com- 
promise passed by the National Con- 
gress in 1820, and for more than thirty 
years acquiesced in by all parties as 
limiting the territory into which 
slavery might be extended. Then 
followed the invasion of Kansas by the 
border ruffians of Missouri; the 
assaults upon and murders of the 
Free State men of that territory, 
connived at and condoned by the 
National Democratic Administration 
and its territorial officers in "Bleeding 
Kansas." Then the North turned — 
not its cheek for another blow — but 

to face with Northern firmness and 
fierceness the proslavery influence to 
which it had too long yielded. 

Massachusetts recalled the words 
of one of its own poets saying to her 
in her own vernacular: 

" Hain't they sold your colored seamen? 
Hain't they made your env'ys wiz? 
Wut'll make ye act like freemen? 
Wut'll git your dander riz?" 

and, as its answer, sent forth a call 
for a convention, to be held at Worces- 
ter on September 7, 1854, to take 
measures for checking the aggressions 
of the proslavery Democracy. Samuel 
Hoar, the father of the late George 
F. Hoar, and the first signer of the 
call for the organization of the Free 
Soil Party in 1848, presided at this 
convention, which nominated Henry 
Wilson as its candidate for Governor. 
The party then organized was popu- 
larly known as "The Republican 
Party," and a few years afterward 
formally adopted that name in Massa- 

The year 1854 witnessed also the 
advent into the field of politics in 
Massachusetts of the so-called " Know 
Nothing Party," a secret organization 
whose members always responded, "I 
don't know," to any question asked 
them concerning it. Its avowed pur- 
pose was to check the alleged influence 
of Romanism, and the power in politics 
of citizens of foreign birth of that 
faith. This party had enrolled in its 
membership about eighty thousand 
voters. In the State election in the 
fall of 1854 it swept, like a veritable 
tidal wave, over the Commonwealth, 
bringing to the surface and depositing 
upon its political shores a motley 
collection of self-seeking politicians, 
religious bigots, and ignorant enthusi- 
asts. It elected all its candidates 
for State offices, members of Congress, 
and nearly every member of the Legis- 
lature of the State. In the ranks of 
the "Know Nothing," or "American 
Party," as it was known to its mem- 
bers, were many who had, as anti- 
slavery men, been active workers in 
the Free Soil Party, and carrying 
their antislavery principles into their 



new political fellowship, did much in 
controlling its action in politics on 
antislavery lines. 

The spirit and sentiment which or- 
ganized the Republican Party in that 
year soon made their way into the 
lodges of the "Know Nothings," and 
the fear of papal aggression yielded 
to the indignation aroused by the 
aggressiveness of the slave power, and 
the dominating influence of the South. 
In 1855 the Know Nothing Legislature 
enacted the "Personal Liberty Law," 
designed to safeguard in Massachu- 
setts the rights of alleged fugitive 
slaves. In June, 1855, the Massa- 
chusetts delegates in the National 
Council of that party, and other 
Northern delegates, withdrew from 
that body, because it demanded the 
enforcement of the Fugitive Slave 
Law and forbade the discussion, in any 
form, of slavery by the American 
Party in its councils. 

In the same year (1855) the Ameri- 
can Party elected Henry Wilson, who 
had late in the campaign of 1854 
joined that party, U. S. Senator from 
Massachusetts. He had been one 
of the most prominent members of 
the Free Soil Party, and was in the 
1854 campaign the candidate for 
Governor of the Republicans. 

Henry Wilson was one of the practi- 
cal political managers of Massachu- 
setts; no man in the State was in closer 
touch with, or better knew the trend 
of opinion among the middling class 
of its population than he, though he 
made himself familiar with political 
conditions in any class. He would 
go from one end of the State to another, 
visiting workshops and factories, talk- 
ing with the operators, or interviewing 
the managers; calling upon the party 
men of prominence — not forgetting to 
chat with those of the opposite party — 
thus getting at the consensus of public 
opinion and fitting himself for the 
contests which he saw were impending. 
He would not infrequently drop a 
word or make a suggestion other than 
those in which he believed, with the 
view of drawing out the company in 
which he happened to be. He was an 

especial favorite with the mechanic 
and farming element, for he had been 
one of them. He was born to a life 
of early poverty at Farmington, N. H., 
February 16, 1812. His name as 
child and young man was Jeremiah 
Jones Colbath, for which he later 
substituted the name by which he is 
best known. His early education was 
very limited; he struggled along as 
best he might, keeping his life and his 
mind clear, at work as a farm laborer 
until he arrived at the age of twenty- 
one, when he walked from his New 
Hampshire home to Natick and 
learned the shoemaker's trade. He 
earned money enough to pay for his 
tuition for a few months at the Concord 
Academy. When his money was ex- 
hausted he returned to the shoe- 
maker's bench. In the presidential 
campaign of 1840 he first became 
known to the public as a stump 
speaker for "Tippecanoe and Tyler, 
too," under the name of "The 
Natick Cobbler," and in later cam- 
paigns was in great demand at party 
gatherings of the Whigs. In 1848 he 
was a delegate to the Whig National 
Convention, which nominated General 
Taylor for the presidency on a pro- 
slavery platform, and, as an anti- 
slavery man, he, with Charles Allen 
of Worcester, bolted from the conven- 
tion and took with Mr. Allen an active 
part in organizing the Free Soil Party 
in Massachusetts. He subsequently 
became President of the State Senate, 
United States Senator, and Vice- 
President; dying in office November 
22, 1875. 

In 1855 the Republicans nominated 
as their candidate for Governor, Julius 
Rockwell, who had been an anti- 
slavery Whig. He had been Speaker 
of the Massachusetts House of Repre- 
sentatives, and for a short time a 
Senator of the United States; in 
1859 he was appointed by Governor 
Banks one of the judges of the new 
Superior Court of the State. Henry 
Wilson and Anson Burlingame (one 
of the members of Congress elected 
by the American Party in 1854) 
publicly supported the Republican 



candidate; breaking their allegiance 
to the party which had placed them 
in office, and ever after acted with the 
Republicans. Burlingame was an old 
Free Soiler, and as such a candidate 
for Congress in the district which he 
afterwards represented. But the 
American Party was numerically 
strong enough to again elect its ticket 
for State officers and controlled the 
State for another year. 

When the time came to nominate a 
national ticket for the election of 
1856 the Republican Party had gained 
great strength in the Northern States. 
It met in National Convention, nomi- 
nated John C. Fremont of California 
for President, and William L. Dayton 
of New Jersey for Vice-President. 
The nominees of the Democratic Party 
for those offices were James Buchanan 
of Pennsylvania, and John C. Brecken- 
ridge of Kentucky. The American 
Party placed in nomination Millard 
Fillmore of New York, who had been 
acting President after General Tay- 
lor's death, and Andrew J. Donelson 
of Tennessee. An antislavery section 
of the American Party nominated 
Fremont for President, and "a party 
by the name of Johnson" for Vice- 
President. The last-named ticket was 
soon withdrawn, as the great bulk of 
the rank and file of its supporters were, 
in the main, in practical sympathy 
with the Republican Party and openly 
advocating its principles. 

The nomination of Fremont and 
Dayton and the platform of the party 
were most favorably received in Massa- 
chusetts. The conscience of the State 
was deeply moved and firmly deter- 
mined no longer to submit to slavery's 
aggressions. As has been already 
said, the repeal of the Missouri 
Compromise, the arrest and return of 
fugitive slaves, especially that of 
Anthony Burns, which followed within 
about a month after that repeal, had 
substantially solidified public opinion. 
It seemed as though nothing was 
wanting to assure to the Republicans 
the control of the State. But the 
crowning act of Southern arrogance 
and Southern folly came on the twenty- 

second day of May, 1856, when 
Senator Sumner, who after the ad- 
journment of the Senate remained at 
his desk quietly engaged in writing, his 
legs so tightly confined under the desk 
that he could not easily rise, was 
brutally beaten about his head with a 
heavy cane by Preston S. Brooks, 
M. C, from South Carolina, until he 
fell bleeding and insensible on the 
floor of the Senate chamber. This 
outrage was committed because of 
words spoken in debate by the Senator 
a day or two before. 

Charles Sumner, the champion for 
many years of the moral element of 
the Free Soil and Republican parties 
in Massachusetts, was born in Boston 
and educated in her schools. He was 
a graduate of Harvard College and 
its Law School, and a member of the 
Suffolk County Bar, though not es- 
pecially active in his profession. Of 
sufficient financial means to afford 
him the opportunities of foreign 
travel, in his earlier years he made the 
tour of Europe under most favorable 
circumstances, having letters of in- 
troduction to European notabilities 
which opened to him the homes of 
refinement and secured for him the 
entree to literary and scientific socie- 
ties and the political and diplomatic 
world. Upon his return to Boston he 
opened a law office, which was the 
center for men of sympathies similar 
to his own. In 1845 he came very 
prominently before the people of 
Massachusetts, by reason of language 
used in his Fourth of July oration 
before the citizens of Boston at the 
celebration of the national anniver- 
sary. The title of his address was 
"The True Grandeur of Nations," 
and it was most pronounced in de- 
nouncing wars as unnecessary, armies 
and navies as things not to be en- 
couraged, and far from complimentary 
to the citizen militia, several com- 
panies of which were present and took 
umbrage at his address. He early 
identified himself with men of anti- 
slavery sentiments, and in 1848 ad- 
hered to the Free Soil Party, advocat- 
ing its principles. In 1851 he was, 



after a long contest in the Massachu- 
setts Legislature, elected to the 
United States Senate for the full 
term of six years, in the last year 
of which he was, as elsewhere herein 
stated, assaulted by Preston S. Brooks. 
For nearly four years Mr. Sumner was 
a great sufferer from the effects of this 
assault, and during that period seldom 
able to appear in his seat in the Senate. 
He was obliged to go to Europe for 
medical treatment, and only obtained 
relief by submitting himself to the 
tortures of a red-hot iron applied to 
his naked spine. Massachusetts hon- 
ored him and itself by re-electing him 
in 1857, although it then seemed that 
he might never again be able to 
serve her. 

When the time came for the election 
in 1862 of a Legislature which should 
choose him or some other person to 
his place, a formidable movement was 
started by certain dissatisfied Re- 
publicans to defeat both him and 
Governor Andrew for re-election, but 
it signally failed. In 1863 he was 
again elected for a six years' term in 
the Senate, to be elected again in 1869. 
During his last term he had openly 
condemned the placing upon the flags 
of the regiments which served in the 
war of the rebellion the names of the 
battles in which the regiments had 
taken part, as tending to prolong 
memories unhappy to the South, and 
as keeping alive the animosities which 
the war had engendered. He had 
about this time openly opposed certain 
of the policies of President Grant, 
notably that one which contemplated 
securing a part of San Domingo, had 
refused to support the re-election of 
Grant and advocated that of Horace 
Greeley, the opposition candidate. 

At a special session of the Legisla- 
ture called after the great fire in 
Boston in 1872, resolutions were passed 
condemning his position in relation 
to the flags, but they were rescinded 
by a subsequent Legislature. He re- 
tained until his death the esteem 
of the people at large, and the affection 
and confidence of those who most 
intimately knew him. An extended 

statement of his work, life, and 
achievements would lake more space 
than could be afforded here. They 
have been adequately set forth in the 
story of his life by his friend and 
biographer, the late Lion. Edward L. 
Pierce. Senator Sumner died in office 
March 11, 1874. 

Brutal as was the attack itself, 
deeply as it stirred the people of the 
North, the indignation was heightened 
when the leading journals of the South 
justified the act of Brooks. Public 
meetings extolled it, and he was made 
the hero of the hour to the Southern 
heart. A motion was made to expel 
Brooks from membership in the House 
of Representatives, but it failed to 
receive the necessary two-thirds vote. 
Thereupon Brooks, insolently justi- 
fying his cowardly conduct, resigned 
his seat, returned to South Carolina, 
was re-elected, and in a fortnight 
after his resignation appeared in the 
House with his certificate of re- 
election. Strange as it may seem, 
no Democratic Senator, though practi- 
cally challenged thereto, would move 
for a committee of investigation, and 
when, on the motion of Mr. Seward 
of New York, a committee of five was 
appointed to inquire into the assault 
and report, that committee consisted 
of five Democrats, three of them from 
Northern States. Their report was 
that the Senate had no jurisdiction. 
Mr. Wilson, Senator Sumner's col- 
league, characterized the outrage in 
fitting terms on the floor of the Senate, 
and was challenged by Brooks. This 
challenge he declined, as one who was 
opposed to dueling, at the same time 
announcing that he believed in the 
principle of self-defense, and for some 
time he went armed. 

In the House of Representatives, 
however, Massachusettts had a mem- 
ber who believed in the duello, Anson 
Burlingame, born in New Berlin, 
N. Y., November 14, 1820, graduate 
of the University of Michigan in 1843, 
and familiar with the sports and hunts 
which were a part of every young 
westerner's training, came to the 
Harvard Law School from which he 



graduated in 1846. He was a young 
man of pleasing address, winning 
manners, and a taking public speaker; 
though at first his oratory bord:red 
upon the florid. He formed the ac- 
quaintance of and married a young 
lady of Cambridge, the daughter of 
the Hon. Isaac Livermore of that city, 
and so made the East his home and 
opened a law office in Boston in which, 
as "Warrington" (Wm. S. Robinson) 
says, "the clients he met were mostly 
the young and enthusiastic Free Soilers 
of those days." Burlingame had 
allied himself with the Free Soil Party 
in 1848, and was the popular orator 
among its young speakers. While effect- 
ive upon the platform before average 
country town audiences, he was rather 
averse to the harder lines of political 
work. One of his intimates said of him, 
comparing him with Henry Wilson, 
" Burlingame never gets up, and Wilson 
never goes to bed." In 1852 he was 
a member of the Massachusetts Senate, 
and in the fall of that year the Free 
Soil candidate for Congress, in the 
district which embraced the northern 
wards of Boston; but his party was 
at that time in a woful minority, 
casting but fourteen votes in Ward 1 
of Boston (it gave Fremont four hun- 
dred votes in the same ward four years 
later), and he failed of election. 

In 1854, in company with many 
other active Free Soilers, he joined 
the so-called "Know Nothing Party," 
and was elected to Congress from 
the district in which he ran in 1852. 
It was while he was serving his first 
term as a member of that body that 
Senator Sumner was assaulted. Bur- 
lingame denounced the act of Brooks 
"in the name of that civilization 
which it outraged," and "in the name 
of that fair play which bullies and 
prize fighters respect." He, too, was 
challenged by Brooks; he accepted the 
challenge and, as the challenged party, 
named a place in Canada as the ground, 
rifles, at a distance of forty paces, 
as the weapons. To this Brooks 
refused to consent, alleging that in the 
state of public feeling at the North 
he could not get to Canada in safety; 

a mere subterfuge to avoid meeting the 

man he had challenged, for he could 
easily have^ gotten to Canada if he 
wished to; his courage, which was equal 
to murderously assaulting a helpless 
man, failed him when he was invited 
to face a loaded rifle in the hands of 
a man familiar with its use. Burlin- 
game's conduct in this matter was a 
potent element in securing his re- 
election for his second term in 1856. 
He was re-elected in 1858; but at the 
election in 1860 was defeated, fortu- 
nately for himself, for defeat opened 
to him a field of action as a diplomat 
in which he obtained a renown almost 
world-wide. President Lincoln ap- 
pointed him, in 1861, minister to 
Austria. Burlingame had, some years 
before, openly espoused the cause of 
the Hungarians in their revolt against 
Austrian rule and been the eulogist 
of Kossuth, the Hungarian leader, 
thus making himself persona non grata 
to the Austrian Emperor, who de- 
clined to receive him as our minister. 
He was then sent as our minister to 
China, where he remained until he had 
successfully completed negotiations 
with the Chinese government, se- 
curing to the United States many 
valuable privileges. Resigning as 
minister in 1867, the Chinese authori- 
ties appointed him special envoy to 
the United States and the leading 
European powers, for the purpose of 
framing treaties of amity; an honor 
never before conferred upon a for- 
eigner. He, with a suite of Chinese 
nobles, visited this country, and was 
everywhere received with marked 
honors. He died in Europe before his 
work there was completed. 

In 1856 the managing element among 
the Republicans deemed it wise, in 
order to secure as large a number of 
votes as possible, for the Republican 
National candidates, from men still 
attached to the Know Nothings, 
that there should be no opposition 
from the Republicans to the re-election 
of Governor Gardner; accordingly the 
Republican Party abstained from nomi- 
nating a candidate for Governor. But 
a body of Republicans, under the 







leadership of Francis W. Bird (father 
of Charles Sumner Bird, the candidate 
for governor of the new " Progressive 
Party" in 1912) refused to seem to 
be committed to the support of 
Gardner and put out "The Honest 
Man's Ticket," with Josiah Quincy 
as their gubernatorial candidate. 
This ticket polled about five thousand 
votes. " Frank Bird," as he was called 
by his familiars, was a most determined 
opponent of all shams; he was, in 
1857, opposed to the election of N. P. 
Banks, the Republican candidate for 
Governor, supporting for that office 
Caleb Swan of Easton, on a "straight 
Republican ticket." 

Francis W. Bird was one of the 
"Conscience Whigs," who in 1846 
opposed in the Whig State Convention 
the pro-Southern attitude of the 
"Cotton Whigs," as the conservative 
element in that party was named. 
That same year Mr. Bird called to- 
gether men who thought as he did on 
the question of slavery. For years 
they met almost weekly to dine and 
discuss politics from an antislavery 
standpoint. This politic social gath- 
ering, known as "The Bird Club," 
was for many years a potent factor in 
the Free Soil and Republican parties of 
this State and nation. It exists to-day 
in the Massachusetts Club, also a 
politico-social body of Republicans; 
the story of which and of the old Bird 
Club will possibly appear in this 
magazine at a not distant date. 

The campaign for Fremont and 
Dayton was a most exciting one in 
Massachusetts. A grand barbecue, 
something heretofore unknown in the 
political campaigns of the State, was 
held at Fitchburg; the speaking was in 
a mammoth tent capable of holding 
thousands; orators from other States 
addressed the gathering, and an ox, 
roasted whole, was a part of the bill of 
fare. In all the large centers "Path- 
finder Clubs" were organized, taking 
this name from one of the soubriquets 
of Fremont who, as an officer in the 
United States Army, had led an ex- 
ploring expedition across the continent 
to California, then Mexican territory. 

Fremont, in conjunction with Commo- 
dore Kearney of our navy, raised 
"the Stars and Stripes" over that soil 
and, when California in 1850 came into 
the Union as a State, was one of its 
first senators in Congress. He had 
been one of the foremost advocates of 
making California a "Free State." 

The romantic sentiment of the 
community was enlisted. On the plat- 
form orators related the love story of 
John and Jessie; how John, despite the 
objections of Jessie's father, who was 
no less a personage than Thomas H. 
Benton, for thirty years a United 
States Senator from Missouri, had 
pressed his suit, won Jessie's heart, and 
eloped with and married the girl of 
his choice. Fremont and Dayton 
carried the State, and all the State 
officials elected, except the Governor, 
were in sympathy with the Republic- 
ans. At the election of State officers 
in 1857 the Republican Party elected 
its ticket in full, and the Legislature 
of 1858 contained in both its branches 
substantial Republican majorities. 

John A. Andrew was one of the new 
members of the lower house, making 
his appearance for the first time in a 
legislative assembly. Mr. Andrew 
had for years been identified with the 
positive element of the political op- 
ponents of slavery. He had been an 
early member of the Liberty Party, had 
participated in its early struggles, and 
in 1848 with most of its membership 
had gone into the Free Soil Party, 
with which he acted until the advent 
of the Republican Party in 1854, to 
which he gladly gave his allegiance. 
Up to this time (1858) he was com- 
paratively unknown outside a limited 
circle, he was scarcely conscious of his 
own powers, but, all unknown to him, 
his hour was at hand. 

The principal event in the Legislature 
of 1858 was the passage of the address 
to the Governor, requesting the re- 
moval of Edward G. Loring from his 
office of Judge of Probate for Suffolk 
County, which office he held when in 
1854, acting as a United States Commis- 
sioner in the hearing on the rendition of 
Anthony Burns, an alleged fugitive 



from slavery, he had ordered that 
Burns be returned to the man who 
claimed him as his slave. The Legis- 
lature of 1855 had, in deference to the 
outraged antislavery sentiment of the 
State, aroused by the incidents con- 
nected with that rendition, enacted 
the "Personal Liberty Law," by the 
terms of which was declared, among 
other things, substantially, that no 
man holding office as a United States 
Commissioner should be allowed to 
hold a judicial office of the State. To 
this law Judge Loring paid no atten- 
tion, and the Legislature proceeded 
forthwith to request his removal 
by the Governor, Henry J. Gardner. 
This the Governor declined to do. 
Similar request was made by the 
Legislature of 1857, but Governor 
Gardner adhered to his former posi- 
tion, in which he had the support of 
many antislavery men, who regarded 
the proceeding as an attempt to punish 
the judge for doing what he deemed 
to be his duty as Commissioner, and 
also as a blow at the independence of 
the judiciary. 

Believing that Governor Banks 
would respect a similar request when 
made to him, it was introduced and 
referred to a committee. The Gov- 
ernor, willing, if not anxious, to avoid 
the responsibility, favored the passage 
of a bill which should consolidate the 
Courts of Probate with the Courts of 
Insolvency, thereby abolishing the 
office of Judge of Probate, and quietly 
getting rid of Judge Loring. Such 
a bill was introduced. Whichever 
measure was first reported would have 
the better position for immediate 
action. In the race for diligence the 
radicals won. By a tactical move 
Robert C. Pitman of New Bedford, in 
behalf of the committee on the address 
for removal, got its report in one day 
ahead of the report of the committee 
on the proposed consolidation. 

The request for removal, although 
opposed by some of the leading Re- 
publican members, was adopted and 
sent to the Governor, who yielded to 
the majority, and in his message to the 
House called attention to certain 

defects in the "Personal Liberty Law" 
in language rather pleasing to the 
conservative members. Caleb Cush- 
ing of Newburyport, a Democrat (who 
had been Attorney-General in the 
Cabinet of President Pierce, a man of 
commanding ability, and once a Whig 
member of Congress from the Essex 
District, and as such a man of pro- 
nounced Northern views), led the 
opposition, and in a speech of great 
power denounced the removal, ar- 
raigned the Governor, and condemned 
the law, calling it the Personal Slavery 
Act. So aggressive was his speech 
that the Republicans felt that the 
party should then and there be 
defended. The political editor of the 
Boston Traveler, who was present, 
said to an associate, "The man who 
can successfully reply to that speech 
ought to be made Governor of Massa- 
chusetts." The Republicans looked 
around the hall, turning first to one 
leader, then to another, then to a third, 
in the hope for the needed reply. 
But the three men, acknowledged 
Republican leaders, each failed to rise 
to the occasion. It looked as though 
Cushing had quelled the whole House. 
The hour had come! where was the 
man? A member who up to that 
time had not been conspicuous in the 
proceedings, serving his first term, 
sat uneasily waiting for some one to 
vindicate his party's action. A friend 
at his side whispered something in his 
ear. The new member took the floor, 
and in words hesitant, low spoken, 
without apparent earnestness, under- 
took that vindication. Then, said one 
who was present, "In a moment his 
voice broke out in a higher key . . . and 
for half an hour he spoke with a rapid, 
vehement, and overpowering elo- 
quence which I never heard equaled 
before or since." The man was found. 
He was John A. Andrew. "When he 
took his seat," says the same auditor, 
"there was a storm of applause. 
The radical men had found their 
prophet. The House was wild with 
excitement. For a moment the 
Speaker was unable to preserve order, 
members cried for joy, others waved 


their handkerchiefs and threw what- Men," to show that antislavery was 
ever they could find into the air." with them a conviction deep seated in 
Cushing went to Andrew and shak- their souls, at all times to be avowed 
ing hands with him offered his con- and defended. The call was heeded, 
gratulations. Notonly was this speech Thenceforth Massachusetts was a radi- 
an effective answer to that of Cushing, cal antislavery State, and her radi- 
it was a call to the antislavery men of calism was exhibited when in the 
Massachusetts to awake from their Convention of 1860, Andrew was 
lethargy, to once more place in the placed in nomination for the govern- 
forefront of the contest the old banner orship and elected on a radical 
of "Free Soil, Free Speech, and Free platform. 



Marko ate at supper with his mother, 

With his mother, with his first love, 

Of salt and of bread and of red wine which warms the blood, 

And as the warrior ate, he smiled. 

To the warrior Marko also spake his mother, 

"Wherefore smilest thou, O my son, my Marko? 

Thou smilest because the supper is good? 

Or because of the first tenderness 

Of my love, of my sweet hospitality?" 

The prince replied, the warrior Marko: 

"Mother dear, my darling mother, 

I do not smile because of your repast, 

Nor because of the most great tenderness 

Of your hospitality, of your dear hospitality. 

I smile because of Phillippe Matzavin. 

He has destroyed sixty-six valiant kings. 

They to him have given sixty-six fair slaves in exchange. 

But at present it is your hour. 

You circumvent the slave; O my first love! 

Shall I go to him, or shall I wait him here? " 

The mother of Marko spake these words: 
"It is better for you to go and not to wait. 
Your old mother would not laugh to see 
The impious struggles of two heroes, 
To see how the blood of her son flowed." 

Then Marko rose and went, 

And he encountered those sixty-six slaves. 

"Salute you, the sixty-six slaves!" 

"God guard you, oh great warrior, oh warrior Marko!" 

"And I far from Phillippe the Madgyar?" 

"Far? he has yet three hours of the journey." 

"And what is the strength of that warrior, Phillippe?" 

Then the sixty-six slaves replied, 

"God has not created two heroes alike, 

Equal to Phillippe the Madgyar. 

He has lifted that rock to the height of his knee." 

Then the offspring of a king, Marko, 

Raised the rock, the rock so heavy, 

And for three hours tossed it to and fro. 

And said the offspring of a king, Marko, 

"Hearken, ye, the sixty-six slaves, 

Let each of you return quickly to his own country." 

And each returned at once unto his land. 

Marko went toward Phillippe Madgyar, 

And he overcame him — Phillippe, Phillippe the Madgyar. 

From the French of Jules Phillippe Henzay in Le Figaro. 

Shall Copley Square be Made 
or Unmade? 

THIS is an all New England 
question and cannot be an- 
swered rightly without tak- 
ing into the account a wider 
public opinion than is likely to re- 
spond to a local suggestion. Mr. 
Bourne's plan is said to involve too 
much money, and efforts are being 
made to shave it down. 

Now the real difficulty with Mr. 
Bourne's plan is that it does not in- 
volve money enough. Why should 
we continue to afflict posterity with 
inadequate monumental work? Our 
forefathers have surely taught us the 
unhappy consequences of makeshifts 
of that kind. There are few things 
more difficult to get rid of than a bad 
monument. The monument can af- 
ford to wait until there is something 
that the people, with heartfelt earnest- 
ness, really desire to commemorate. 
We may then be willing to spend 
enough money to do it well. Mr. 
Bourne's plan is simple in outline and 
might prove to be very good if very 
well done. Mr. Bourne's plan, 

economized, will be an unqualified 

There is a moral effect in relative 
proportions that our architects some- 
times fail to grasp. Few things are 
more depressing than monumental 
efforts dwarfed into insignificance by 
surrounding commercial structures. 
If a column is to be the monumental 
feature of Copley Square, it must be 
of such massive proportions and en- 
during solidity as to give to all ad- 
jacent commercial structures an ap- 
pearance of relative unimportance. 
Otherwise the moral effect, the civic 
value of the thing is lost This is one 
of the principal reasons for the su- 
perior impressiveness of old-world 
monuments. They outclass their 
surroundings. We have few that are 


not commercially overtopped and 
overwhelmed. Not only must the 
solidity and proportions of a civic 
monument surpass surrounding com- 
mercialism, but so also must the 
beauty and perfection of its workman- 
ship. That is an end not attained by 
searching for the cheapest way of 
doing the thing. If we are not ready 
to take up the work of making Copley 
Square a civic monument, let us 
confine ourselves to the more immedi- 
ate and practical phases of the ques- 

A city square exists to admit light 
and air to crowded districts and to 
afford ready access to diverging streets. 
The full area of the square should be 
conserved to these ends, for though 
we do not need it now, we will sadly 
need it as the city's growth increases 
the congestion of what is already 
ceasing to be an up-town district. 

Public comfort demands easier 
access to Huntington Avenue from 
Boylston Street for pedestrians than 
now exists. Any plan to be seriously 
considered should facilitate that im- 
portant line of communication. To do 
this is very easy, involving a little 
change of sidewalk lines that would 
not at all interfere with any artistic 
development of the area. The same 
improvemant would facilitate access 
to the Back Bay station from lower 
Boylston Street. The present situa- 
tion is awkward and, with the increase 
of traffic that must follow the growth 
of the city, will become dangerous. 
The real solution of that problem lies 
in closing the Copely Square end of St. 
James Street, and carrying the side- 
walk more directly from Boylston 
Street to the very important thorough- 
fares of Huntington Avenue and Dart- 
mouth Street. Such a change is de- 
manded by public comfort. 

Guineas and Ha'pennies 
a study of social conditions in the cotton 







By permission of R. Banks. » 



Manchester! Why? Really, 
you are wasting your time!" 
How often was that said to 
me, and how gladly would I 
spare a page to refute the well-in- 
tended advice, for to an active intel- 
ligence Manchester makes a strong 

Unrecognized as a capital city by 
the political geographers, the smoke- 
flags that float from her thousand 
chimneys exercise a dominion more real 
over an empire more vast than any 
sovereign state can call its own, an 
empire of trade as broad as the globe 
is round. 

And how proud are her citizens of 
their black city with her eternal pall 
and the ceaseless whir of her spindles! 

Standing there, at a certain point of 
vantage, the eye sweeping a not dis- 
tant horizon may behold at a single 
glance mill property representing an 
investment of forty millionsof dollars — 
a portion only of the vast cotton manu- 
facturing equipment of Lancashire. 

It is impossible for an observer of 

any degree of intelligence not to feel 
the inspiration of the enterprise, the 
patience and foresight of capital, the 
manufacturing sense, business acumen 
and indomitable perseverance of which 
this is the mighty achievement. 

Here is the last word in factory con- 
struction and mechanical equipment. 
Unrivaled organization stands behind 
and safeguards the vast business in- 
terests involved. A gathering of 
cotton manufacturers in the beautiful 
town hall of Manchester brings to- 
gether a total of business skill and 
probity that may well excite the pride 
of England and the wondering admira- 
tion of other nations. There is much 
here to be approached as a scholar ap- 
proaches a master. 

But the American of to-day, to whom 
is being presented the suggestion not 
only of competing in the markets of the 
world, but of freely opening our own 
markets to the unrestrained competi- 
tion of this gigantic industrial facility, 
cannot but turn first to that other 
investment over against these vast 



By permission of R. Banks 


millions in mill and machinery and 
equally visible from the same view- 
point, of some paltry thousands de- 
voted to the erection of the simple and 
straitened dwellings that house the 
toilers of England. Is this the ulti- 
mate of unhindered competition? The 
mind travels back from this sea of low- 

eaved structures, these two and four 
room hovels, ro the thriving and beau- 
tiful manufacturing villages of New 
England, teeming with every com- 
fort, white under the green trees and 
bright in the sunshine. 

I, for one, am unwilling that our 
people should decide the grave issues 

By permission of R. Banks 





.-. "' : ]i ; "'lV!|'llSv^~.- 


involved in a radical change of our 
tariff system, without some compre- 
hension of this darker phase of the sub- 
ject and of why it is that the cotton 
manufacturers of Lancashire can un- 
dersell the world. 

hor even tne traveled American 
brings back false ideas. There are two 
countries in England, the land of the 
guinea and the land of the ha'penny. 
Or, as we might put it, two popula- 
tions, — those who receive and those 
who give gratuities. The American 
traveler knows little beyond Regent 
Street or Bond Street prices. He is a 
giver of gratuities, i a fact, the prince 
of all tippers. He finds many cheap 
luxuries and marvels — cheap service 
in particular, and a thousand and one 
economies over his cost of living at 
home, particularly where service is a 
heavy element in the cost. Of the cost 
of living where the element of service 
is eliminated and luxuries forever out 
of the question, the cost of meeting 
the bare minimum of subsistence, he 
knows nothing. He is a citizen of the 
land of the guinea. He has absolutely 

no knowledge of prices in those tiny 
and obscure markets where the ha'- 
penny is the medium of exchange. 

English cotton workers have been 
trained as have few others of the 
world's skilled workers in the science 
of poverty. As recently as our own 
Civil War, privations of such severity 
were forced upon Lancashire by the 
difficulty of obtaining cotton that the 
wage-earners were reduced to the last 
straits of necessity, and the memory 
of that epoch remains as the back- 
ground against which the present is 
measured, while the grandfathers and 
gradmothers hark back to the still 
more disastrous years of the early 
fifties. And these terrible and long- 
continued epochs of privation, when 
the price of skilled labor fell as low as 
four or five shillings a week and em- 
ployment even at that pitiful dole was 
only for the favored few, exercises to 
this day a profound influence upon 
the prevalent standards of living. 

An English American, revisiting the 
scenes of his boyhood in Manchester 
after forty years' absence, told me that 



neither in the appearance of their 
homes nor their manner of living 
could he discover any material change 
to have taken place in that period of 
nearly half a century. 

The dwelling-house of the British 
cotton worker, like everything else that 
has felt the pressure of that stupen- 
dous system of production, assumes an 
inevitable and stereotyped pattern. 

Built in blocks of from six to a dozen 
doors, each dwelling occupies an aver- 
age ground space of 14 x 20 feet, and 
in height reaches from twelve to sixteen 
feet to the eaves. It has a door and 
three windows in front and a door and 
two windows in back, and is divided 
into two or four rooms, according as 
the rent is three shillings and nine 
pence (90c) or five shillings and seven 
pence ($1.34) a week. There is no 
cellar until the rent reaches seven or 
eight shillings a week, a figure pro- 
hibitive to the great majority of fami- 

The ground floor is paved with 
slabs of rudely dressed sandstone or 
shale laid on the earth. The open 
fireplace serves all purposes of heat 
and cooking. This fireplace is similar 
in construction and use, but about one- 
third the size, of those used by our 
New England pioneers. It serves all 
purposes of heat and cooking for the 
establishment. If the house is of the 
better grade (for there are differences 
of rank even in these primitive struc- 
tures) an oven is built into the chimney 
on one side of this open hearth, and a 
compartment for hot water on the 
other. A simple damper throws the 
slender blaze to one side or the other 
of the flue according as it is desired to 
heat the oven or the tank. This, the 
kitchen, is the front room of the house 
and the family living-room. It opens 
directly upon the street without hall 
or entry. To the rear (if it is a four- 
room house) is a smaller room, or 
scullery, fitted, in the better tenements, 
but by no means in all, with a rude 
kind of sink, or "slop-stone," as it is 

The walls of the tiny and primitive 
living-room, or kitchen, are usually 

papered in bright colors and its 
single window is elaborately draped 
with a cheap lace curtain and adorned 
with a bit of bright china. This win- 
dow and the doorstep are the two 
glories of the house. The stone sill of 
the one and the stone step of the other 
are daily scoured with a brick that 
leaves them either white of yellow, 
and whatever may be the distress 
within, the lace curtain, china image 
or flower pot, and scoured window and 
door sills never fail. 

If the family furniture is not tem- 
porarily absent (for the pawn shops 
refuse nothing) the kitchen will con- 
tain a dresser, chairs, a table and a 
lounge or bed, and a bit or two of car- 
pet on the floor. The dresser is the 
piece de resistance of the outfit and 
is often an heirloom. Upstairs, 
under the low roof, are one or two bed- 
rooms according as the tenement is a 
two or four room structure. These 
are fitted according to family demands. 

These simple structures are roofed 
with slabs of split stone, from an inch 
to two inches in thickness, and so 
heavy as to cause a perpetual sagging 
of the beams and very questionable 
looking weather conditions. Great 
daubs of plaster here and there bear out 
the natural surmise that the roofs have 
rather a sorry time of it. 

In order to furnish a sufficient draft 
the chimneys must rise several feet 
above the low ridgepoles, and these 
up-standing chimneys, rising from the 
low, rough and twisted roofs, give, to 
American eyes, a singular impression 
of primitive simplicity. At American 
prices the entire simple home could be 
erected for from one hundred to one 
hundred and fifty dollars and furnished 
for twenty-five dollars. 

I suppose that the actual cost in 
England must be somewhat less. The 
investment appears to be sufficiently 
inviting to attract builders who erect 
them by the thousands in the closest 
possible proximity to the mills. The 
margin of profit, however, is not large, 
and wherever improved tenements 
have been erected, unless as a some- 
what ill-advised charity, it is found 



necessary to raise the rental, and the 
houses, in consequence, are more likely 
to be occupied by grocers' clerks and 
small tradesmen than by mill workers. 

Such homes as above described can 
be maintained for a family of four or 
five persons at prevailing English wages 
if at least two members of the house- 
hold are workers and unite their earn- 
ings, or if the head of the family is a 
spinner (or "minder") on high counts 
(that is, very fine yarn calling for the 
highest skill) in the best mills where 
he may earn as much as thirty shillings 
a week ($7.20) if work is plenty and 
the mill running full time. Such a con- 
dition is, of course, the exception. 
The usual thing is for several members 
of the family to pool their earnings. 
The average spinner cannot earn more 
than twenty shillings ($4.84) a week, 
which leaves him, after paying a rent of 
four shillings and sixpence, three dollars 
and seventy-six cents a week, a sum 
that will not suffice to feed and clothe 
a family even in the primitive fashion 
that obtains. And even this scanty 
allowance is depleted by his Union and 
Friendly Society dues and, latterly, 
by his non-employment and sick-benefit 
government tax. 

Other taxes, unless he is a property 
holder, only appear in the price of that 
which he purchases. For let it not be 
supposed by the innocent reader of 
free-trade literature that a tariff is the 
only tax that is added to the price of 
commodities. Few countries in the 
world are more heavily taxed than 
"free-trade" England, and it is John 
that pays the tax. For the increase 
principally appears in the articles 
which he consumes. His only luxuries, 
beer and tobacco, are heavily taxed. 
The land-tax appears in his rent. For 
it if were not for the ground charges, 
his rent, calculated at ten per cent of 
the improvement, could be reduced 
from an average of five shillings a week 
to an average of five shillings a month. 

The land-tax also appears as a heavy 
item in the cost of all farm produce 
which he consumes. Corporation 
and income taxes appear in the price 
of his clothing and of all manufactured 

articles. If any one is so credulous as 
to believe that free trade exempts the 
toiler from the tax imposed by a tariff, 
let him study the family expenses of 
the wage-earners of England. 

It is one thing, as I have already 
intimated, for the moneyed traveler 
to be astonished at the low prices of 
certain classes of articles for sale in 
high-class shops as compared with the 
prices for similar articles in America, 
and it is quite another thing to go out 
with a slender purse and buy the bare 
necessities of existence. The fine, 
soft woolens and dainty wares of Re- 
gent Street are not for John's home. 
These things, the luxuries of the rich, 
are, it is true, heavily taxed by the 
American system. And if our labor- 
ing population sometimes feels the 
pinch of these taxes, it is because the 
purchase of luxuries is not so remote 
from their experience as from that of 
their British fellow workers. The tax 
borne by the laborer of England af- 
fects, not the luxuries that are forever 
beyond his reach, but are assessed 
against the necessities of life — not 
directly, it is true, but none the less 
inevitably, because so large a portion 
of them are borne by the landhold- 
ing and shop-keeping classes who pass 
them on down by increased rents and 
higher prices. Seldom indeed does 
John or his wife appear as a purchaser 
in the great stores or markets of his 
city. Every block, or two blocks at 
most, of the mill districts reveals a tiny 
shop than which nothing can be more 
curious to American eyes. In these 
microscopic emporiums of trade, with 
a floor space of about ten by twelve 
feet, and a small counter across the 
dark end, the necessities of life are 
doled out into the smallest possible 
purchases. The medium of exchange 
is the ha'penny, and an examination 
of the staple offerings is as instructive 
as it is entertaining. 

The prevailing articles of food are 
coarse fish, pork, the lower grades of 
beef, mussels, including snails, cabbage, 
bread, potatoes, and into the price of 
every one of these articles, unless it is 
the small mussels and snails, enters as 



an element practically every tax known 
to the British system. 

A penny (2 cent) loaf of bread in 
Manchester resembles a flat bun, and 
is but little larger than the "rolls" 
sold by American bakers at ten cents a 
dozen. Cabbage, pork, and beef retail 
in these small quantities at practically 
the same price as in America. A very 
small and inferior potato is somewhat 
cheaper than in our markets, although 
with us few potatoes of so low a grade 
get into the market at all. In England 
nothing that can support life can be 
wasted. Fruits of all kinds are much 
more expensive than in the United 
States. Small apples are four pence 
(8 cents) and good ones six pence (12 
cents) a pound. Small, wretched 
bananas are 2 pence (4 cents) apiece. 
Good ones are scarcely obtainable. 
Native grapes are tasteless, thick- 
skinned and watery, and sell at from 
4 pence (8 cents) to 6 pence (12 cents) 
a pound for ordinary and as high as a 
shilling a pound for fancy varieties. 

As to articles of clothing, shoes are 
about the same price as in America, 
and many American-made shoes are on 
sale. But John buys few shoes. His 
daily footwear and that of his family 
is the far-famed "clog," a cheap, 
wooden-soled shoe of primitive manu- 
facture. This shoe, protected with 
iron and brass, is of great durability, 
but little can be said for its style or 
comfort. It sells for from three to 
five shillings — and for the latter 
price good leather shoes can be pur- 
chased in America. His cotton cloth 
he buys on "cheapening day," when 
remnants are sold in the open air mar- 
kets. Comparatively little of the 
lower grades of cotton goods are manu- 
factured in Lancashire, and much is 
imported from Germany, Japan, and 
America. The price does not differ 
materially from that of other markets 
of the world. 

From this glance at the offerings of 
the smaller provision shops of the 
Lancashire district in England (and 
the reader should remember that the 
prices ordinarily quoted in statistics 
are of the wholesale markets and can 

only be rightly interpreted by those 
who understand all the elements of 
profit and cost of distribution) it ap- 
pears that the lower grades of meat 
and ordinary vegetables are about the 
same price as in America and bread 
and fruit higher. No fish of so coarse 
a grade as supply the cheaper markets 
of England are considered edible in 
America. They are universally thrown 
away when caught by our fishermen 
and do not appear in our markets. 
The food actually consumed by the 
working people is much simpler and 
coarser than in America and the prices 
about the same and certainly not 
lower. At the same time wages are 
about half, or in some cases less than 
half, of that for the same grade of em- 
ployment in America. It should be 
remembered that, as yet, we have no 
labor capable of producing the highest 
counts of yarn, where alone such wages 
as 25 shillings ($6.00) a week obtain. 

As to clothing, the men go to work 
in clogs, blue jeans, a cotton shirt, and 
a cloth cap; and the women in clogs, 
knit stockings or no stockings, a full 
dark skirt, cotton waist, and the never- 
failing shawl thrown over the head and 
shoulders. These simple garments are 
practically a uniform by which the 
cotton worker may be instantly known. 
But, alas, he needs no such distinguish- 
ing marks for his identification! 

It is true that children do not work 
in the mills as young as was common a 
generation ago; but the majority of 
workers still begin at a very tender age. 
This, however, is only one and, per- 
haps, the most easily corrected of the 
causes of the physical stunting of the 
textile workers of England. In- 
sufficient diet and cramped living 
quarters have made terrible inroads on 
the stamina, the bone and brawn of a 
once physically powerful race. For 
these men are the descendants of the 
stout yeomanry of England. Far be 
it from me to speak slightingly of any 
race or class of human beings, and 
least of all of the workers of England. 
A less sturdy race could never have 
endured the struggles for existence 
which they have survived. Long en- 



during, loyal and patriotic to a fault, 
they are England in a far truer sense 
than the drones of the gilded halls of 
London. Theirs is the glory of the 
empire, and upon their shoulders rests 
its maintenance. From their ranks 
must be recruited the beauty and 
genius of the land, and many a comely 
face, bright and intelligent eye, and 
finely modeled head does one see among 
them. Proud should England be, 
proud might any nation be, of such 
workers as these. 

Nevertheless the truth must be ad- 
mitted that generations of such living 
as has been their lot has differentiated 
them into as distinct a physical type 
as have the influences that create 
species in the animal world. No holi- 
day attire which they might don could 
conceal their identity from those who 
know the hall-marks of their class. 
And these marks are unquestionably 
the sign-manual of physical deteriora- 
tion. A pennyworth of beer may re- 
place, in temporary lift and stimulus, 
substantial food, but it cannot nourish 
bone and brawn. The sudden daily 
change from the overheated mill to 
the damp stone floor of a poorly heated 
room shortens the breath and narrows 
the chest and closes the skin-pores. 
Generations of this kind of thing, but 
little modified by any immigration or 
introduction of new blood, has its effect 
on the entire physique of a race. 
Small of bone, low of stature, and lean 
of habit are the cotton workers of Eng- 
land, with white faces and nervous 
motions. Their adaptation to their 
environment is all the more pathetic 
for its completeness. Like every- 
thing else in this wonderfully organ- 
ized industry that adaptation seems to 
have been carried to the last possible 
stage. But, unhappily, it is an adap- 
tation to a condition not good for hu- 
manity. Nature for too many genera- 
tions has been answering the question, 
"To how small a demand on the supply 
of nourishment can a human frame be 
reduced?" The result is a kind of 
universal stunting of all parts and all 
functions. Having been associated 
as closely as possible with them for a 

brief time, I can with confidence select 
them from any throng. More than 
that, I can walk up to American-born 
children and grandchildren of these 
men in our own country and say with 
confidence, " Your father or your grand- 
father was a Lancashire cotton worker." 
It will require many generations and 
much interfusion of new blood to ef- 
face the marks of the evolutionary 
process that has produced this type. 

American labor cannot compete 
on absolutely even terms with this per- 
fected adaptation to a low standard of 
living, without deliberately facing the 
same privations and the same ultimate 
physical deterioration. One possessed 
of any humanity of feeling cannot look 
upon that truly pathetic spectacle of 
the deterioration wrought in the origi- 
nal stock of her splendid yeomanry 
by the factory system of England with- 
out saying to himself, "This must not 
be for America." Unimpeded world- 
trade must await the gradual and in- 
evitable uplift of other nations to our 
standard of living. It must not be 
based on a reduction of our stand- 
ards to theirs. 

But does such an attitude hold out 
any hope for the fine ideal of unim- 
peded world commerce? 

I think that it does. Let us take the 
case that we have under immediate 
consideration, that of this cotton indus- 
try of England. English labor is 
highly organized. At least 90 per 
cent of the adult male cotton workers 
are union members. Every advance, 
every favorable business condition, 
is zealously watched by the organiza- 
tion leaders, and made the occasion 
for a new demand for higher wages. 
It must be evident that England can- 
not long continue her industrial 
struggle along the present lines of 
cheap labor based on a low standard 
of living. There must be a gradual 
approximation to the American stand- 
ard. The strength of the industry 
to-day rests too largely in the heavy 
employment of women, and particu- 
larly of girls and boys at wages of from 
7 shillings ($1.68) to 10 shillings ($2.40) 
a week. These latter classes of labor 



By permission of R. Banks 


By permission of R. Banks 





are scarcely organized at all. 1 he pres- 
sure of family necessities and the de- 
sire for a home of their own drive 
them to work at the earliest possible 
age, and it is on this labor that the 

largest margin of profit appears. But 
the inevitable progress of civilization 
must steadily reduce the availability 
of labor at these wages, and the 
manufacturers of the United States 








Our country has no greater mission 
than that of holding to her high stand- 
ards in this respect. 

need only to continue to maintain 
their standards by protecting their 
markets to see the possibility of under- 
selling them by the exploitation of 
cheap labor made forever impossible. 










The Guardian* 


God Joins Together 

THE shifty-eyed gentleman recom- 
mended to 'Gene by the land- 
lady as a Justice of the Peace 
who performed the functions of 
his office at bargain rates for all friends 
of hers certainly did his duty in the 
present instance both reasonably and 
expeditiously. In less than ten min- 
utes after 'Gene and Bella appeared 
in his rat-hole of an office he declared 
them to be man and wife, and issued to 
the girl a certificate announcing to all 
whom it might concern that she, 
Bella Agnes Parmelee, spinster, had 
on May third been united in the bans 
of holy wedlock to one 'Gene Thomas 
Page, longshoreman. As Bella re- 
ceived the paper, she lifted her face to 
be kissed by her husband. At that mo- 
ment even Justice Barney was con- 
scious of a slight thrill as he saw the 
plain face of rather an ordinary-look- 
ing girl suddenly flash beautiful. He 
hurriedly tucked his three dollars away 
in his wallet, almost as though fearing 
he might be tempted to bestow them 
upon her as a wedding gift. He was 
disturbed by such miracles. 

For that matter, so was 'Gene. He 
had entered into this compact merely 
as the easiest way of preserving his 
comfort, but now he seemed to catch 
a hint of something more serious. 
When he came out of the dingy office 
into the sunshine with Bella clinging 
to his arm, he was at first sober and 
then suddenly elated. He felt quite 
proud of her and equally proud of him- 
self. There was something in her joy- 
ful dependence that glorified him. He 
came back to the rooms distinctly well 
pleased with himself. He threw him- 
self down in a chair with a comfortable 

grunt of content, while Bella whisked 
off her bonnet and proceeded to get his 

"This is something like," he ob- 
served, as he began to fill his corncob 

The next evening after work he 
started with her in search of a flat. 
They did not have a very wide range 
of choice, and before dark decided on 
four rooms not far back from the Ferry. 
The rent was ten dollars a month. 
The following day Bella bought, on 
the installment plan, what furniture 
they needed, and two days later they 
were fairly settled in their new home. 

Though there was plenty to do in 
the flat, Bella at the same time man- 
aged to enjoy her honeymoon trip. She 
took at least a half-dozen rides each 
day on the Michael Regan. Doubtless 
many brides have made longer jour- 
neys on more ambitious craft, but even 
so they couldn't have been any prouder 
or happier. When one is so utterly 
and completely happy as to be ever on 
the verge of tears, why, that is the ul- 
timate, and whether one be the wife of 
a prince or a pauper makes no great 
difference. From her seat in the bow, 
Bella watched her big husband at his 
duties, and thrilled every time he bal- 
anced himself on the snub-nosed point 
of the vessel as he made ready to heave 
the rope and make all fast when they 
neared the wharf. She had never seen 
a braver man, and as the busy horde 
hurried past him she wondered why 
they did not each and all stop to ad- 
mire! Many of them did. There was 
a saucy shop-girl or two who did it 
rather openly, but they only made 
Bella prouder by their glances. It gave 
her a queenly sense of ownership. They 
might look at him as a cat may look at 
a king, but he was hers — all hers. She 
felt like the hostess of the vessel. As 

*Begun in the February number. 

Copyright, 1912, Small, Maynard & Co. 529 



far as she was concerned, 'Gene was 
owner, captain, and engineer. Those 
who scrambled on and of! did so by his 

But again, whether bride of a prince 
or pauper, honeymoons must end. At 
the end of a week she sternly forbore 
all further extravagance and attended 
strictly to her duties at home. In the 
first place she must learn to cook. They 
had been living largely on bakers' stuff, 
but 'Gene did so much talking about 
the good things he used to have at home 
that she bought a secondhand cook 
book and started to master this science. 
She had had no training at home, so 
that her first attempts were sorry fail- 
ures. She produced one evening an 
apple-pie that had every outward ap- 
pearance of being a very good apple- 
pie. But 'Gene had no sooner tasted 
the first mouthful than he shoved away 
his plate. 

"Isn't it good?" she trembled. 

"Next time take the leather out of 
one of my old shoes for the crust," he 
answered. "Gee, this would kill a 

"I worked all the afternoon on it," 
she assured him. 

"Tastes like ye'd worked six months 
on it," he replied. 

"I guess I didn't put in lard 'nuff, " 
she apologized. "But lard is awfully 
high, 'Gene." 

"Ye'd better give up. Buy the 
next one at the bakeshop." 

Bella's lips came together as she sup- 
pressed a sob, but she had no idea of 
giving up. That wasn't her way. 
The next morning she made another, 
but it wasn't much better. She threw 
it in the fire and, investing a few cents 
she had put away for some gingham 
for new aprons, bought another pound 
of lard. This time she met with fair 
success. She ventured, at any rate, 
to produce it that night for dinner, 
and had the tremendous satisfaction 
of watching him eat it and call for a 
second piece. He made no other com- 

"How's it go, 'Gene?" she asked. 

"Not so bad," he answered. 

Before the end of the summer she 

made of herself a fairly competent 

She rose every day at dawn and sang 
and worked until dark. It was amaz- 
ing how much she found to do in those 
four rooms. She worked as hard as 
ever she had worked in her life, but she 
did not know it. The hot summer days 
which in the restaurant used so to drag 
and leave her exhausted now sped by 
as in a wonderful dream. 

'Gene was good to her, very good 
to her. He came home regularly after 
work, and on Saturday nights brought 
his unopened pay envelope without a 
word of protest. She paid a little each 
week on the furniture, kept the rent 
paid up, and yet lived very well indeed. 
She did not stint on the table, though 
she did a little in the matter of clothes. 
Every Sunday they took an excursion 
to the beach, where they both got into 
the water and lolled in the sand. She 
was very proud of 'Gene in his bathing 
suit. He looked like one of the life- 
guards. She saw more than one 
glance of admiration cast at his power- 
ful legs and arms. She herself did 
not show to very good advantage in 
comparison, but she didn't mind that. 
Her pride in him was big enough to 
make her willing to sacrifice her own. 

Now and then, especially when the 
heat grew suffocating in the city, she 
tried to question him a little about his 
life back home. There was a certain 
wistfulness in her questions. In the 
first place, she longed to know about his 
early days in order to share with him 
even those years. She could not get 
over the feeling that he still belonged 
back among the hills. She herself 
had seen little of the country, but that 
little had whetted her appetite for 
more. Happy as she was here, she 
could have been still happier with him 
out of the dust and confusion of thecity. 

'"Gene," she said one night, "are 
your folks still living?" 

He looked up quickly. 

"Yes," he answered bluntly. 

"Your ma and pa and brother?" 

"Yes; why?" 

" Nothin', " she answered, seeing that 
she displeased him. 



But after a little while she dropped 
her sewing again and asked: 

"It's queer you don't never hear 
from them." 

"I don't see nothin' queer about it," 
he answered. 

"Don't you never expect to go back 
and see them?" 

"No," he replied curtly. "Cut it 
out, will you? I want to read the 

"All right, 'Gene." 

But when the summer passed and 
cold weather came, Bella noticed a 
change. The work became more dis- 
agreeable to him as the novelty wore 
away. Sometimes she found a dollar 
missing from his pay envelope. This 
was invariably accompanied by a trace 
of drink in his breath. She said noth- 
ing the first time or two, though it kept 
her awake the best part of the night. 
Finally, however, she plucked up her 
courage to warn him. 

"'Gene," she said, "Fd cut out the 
booze altogether if I was you. " 

"What's that?" he demanded. 

He was always aggressive at such 

"I'm talkin' to you straight, 'Gene," 
she said. 

"Can't a feller have a bit of some- 
thing hot to keep from freezin'?" he 

"Honest, I wouldn't." 

She placed her hand upon his arm. 
He shook himself free. 

"It's all right for you, shut up in the 
house, to talk. You don't know how 
damned cold it gets with the waves 
splashin' over you." 

"Yes, I do, 'Gene," she answered 
tenderly. "It's bitter cold. If you'd 
let me come down with some hot 

He laughed. 

"I'd look fine drinkin' hot coffee 
with the boys all in Mooney's." 

"Coffee would be better fer you," 
she insisted. 

"Forget it," he replied. 

The very next Saturday night he 
came home in a worse condition than 
ever. She said nothing, but when 
after supper he was for starting out 

again she found her courage once 

"Don't go." 

" Ye'd think I wasn't ten years old," 
he growled. 

She smiled. 

"You wasn't much older when I 
found you, 'Gene," she reminded him. 

"Bah! I was a Rube then." 

"I liked you when you was a Rube," 
she said. 

He did not answer at once. Even 
he could not forget her kindness to 
him at that time. 

"'Member how you came down to 
the Ferry that night?" she asked. 

He nodded uneasily. 

"'Member how we set on the bench 
in the park?" 

"I ain't forgot," he answered. "I 
was only goin' out to pass the time of 
day with Sullivan." 

She nestled closer to him. 

"Ah,' Gene, stay here with me to- 
night," she pleaded. 

He threw down his hat and re- 
mained, but he was no very pleasant 

In spite of these worries it was about 
this time that a new and holy light 
warmed Bella's eyes. At first she hugged 
her secret close, for it left her quite 
breathless. It seemed for a short 
while too sacred a thing to confide even 
in her husband. It so occupied her 
thoughts that for the matter of two 
weeks she left 'Gene a free rein. He 
took advantage of it and one night 
turned up penniless and helpless. 

With a great gulping choke she put 
him to bed and sat up all the rest of 
the night rocking slowly to and fro in 
the dark. 

And her thoughts this time were 
neither of 'Gene nor of herself. 

He awoke late the next morning in 
no very good humor. He wished to 
get out of the house. In his present 
fit of depression the sight of her an- 
noyed him. He was disgusted with 
himself and with his whole life here. 
For the first time since he had left 
home he was homesick. He felt a 
longing for the clean sweet air of the 
(Continued on page 557) 

Farming in New England 


I HAVE been gathering my harvest. 
A part of it is over the fire- 
place, a stalk of deep red 
hollyhock in a tall vase on the 
mantelpiece. A bowl of it is beside 
me — gay yellow nasturtiums which 
have bloomed in spite of frosty 
nights, in the shelter of the feathery 
asparagus. Branches of autumn leaves 
are in a jar in the corner. There are 
hardly places enough in the little farm- 
house to put the armfuls I gathered 

With a heart full of thanksgiving 
I will tell some of the reasons why we 
have chosen a New England farm for 
our home. 

Knowing that the time will come 
when office life will be a burden to 
one of us, and the flitting of the 
children to their own work will leave 
the other of us empty handed, we 
thought best to establish a substitute 
for the office, and a home with in- 
terests and cares enough to keep minds 
and hearts busy and young. We 
want to be needed by our work. It is 
easy, in the city, to turn all home cares 
over to hired helpers, and be forced 
to hunt amusement. It is equally 
easy to close the house and know that 
it makes no difference whether we 
stay away months or years. The 
country home is always calling. Or- 
chard, garden, and animals do best 
for those who love them, and no one 
is too old or too young to find work 
and interest with growing things. 

However complete a farm home 
may seem when bought, the creative 
instinct is strong in the country, and 
with Kipling, we feel that "we may 
of our love create our earth." So our 
farm becomes, in some degree, an 
expression of ourselves. 

Fortunately we knew before we 


began farming that the tales of 
fortunes awaiting the city man who 
turns his office-trained mind to the 
business of the farm were better 
turned out. The farm-trained mind 
is more versatile than the office-trained 
mind, and the salvation of the city 
man who goes a-farming is the 
generosity of his neighbors who lend 
a helping hand. But a good-sized 
farm, well equipped, will pay even 
the city man when he learns how to 
run it. 

We began with twenty acres, an 
old house and barns, and a view. 
We did not make money off this with 
which to stock the place, buy land, 
build barns, and live in plenty. A 
Chinese gardener might, but an Ameri- 
can family can't. 

Mr. Farmer, not being born or 
trained a farmer, galdly earns his 
living in the city, and when vacation 
times comes he hurries to the farm 
and works and studies and plans, so 
that when it will be time to leave 
the office for good he will come back 
to the land with some training for the 

Mrs. Farmer and little Miss and 
Master Farmer live in the city during 
the winter months and on the farm 
all summer. 

Mrs. Farmer raises flowers and 
vegetables and poultry, with the very 
necessary assistance of men who know 
how. She puts up fruit for winter use 
and for Christmas gifts, and shares the 
house and farm with brothers and 
sisters and nieces and nephews and 
friends who haven't quite decided to 
go and do likewise, but feel the charm 
of country life, or at least wonder 
what it is, and come to see. 

We urge no one to give up trips 
abroad and life at summer resorts to 








join the growing fraternity of country 
folk. The call is loud enough to those 
who can hear it. The cities must be 
filled, and God wisely made some 
people deaf to one call, and other people 
deaf to another, and each man goes 
his appointed way. We are glad that 
our way led us to the hills of New 
England. Perhaps the farms are 
rockier than those of the western 
plains, and the winters colder than in 
the land of orange groves, but it does 
not seem as though there can be a 
fairer spot on earth. 

Our farm has the charm of having 
been in the family for three genera- 
tions, that is, we are the third, and we 
dream that the hands of our great- 
great-grandchildren will turn the spin- 
ning wheels in the old attic that is now 
the delight of our children. 

The farming instinct skipped a 
generation, and for a time the land 
was rented or left alone to cover itself 
with witchgrass and brambles as it 

chose. For each of five years we have 
spent some time and some money im- 
proving the place. It has not paid 
its own expenses in money yet, but 
in fun and health it has more than 
paid, and the other will come. The 
old house has been made modern 
enough to be comfortable, and left. old- 
fashioned enough to be lovable. The 
barns are bigger and better than they 
were. More acres and buildings have 
been added, until we find from statis- 
tics that we have an average farm in 
size, and we are determined to make 
it more than average in productiveness. 
Already a bull of our own raising 
has taken first prize at the fair, and 
a new joy came with the knowledge 
that our stock is good. We have 
chosen Guernsey cows. The principal 
reason for the choice is perhaps the 
same as that which a neighbor gave 
for choosing Ayrshires: "Because 
we like them." We are keeping 
records, and trying to select the best 


of the many new ways of caring for 
the dairy. Until we have built a 
silo, and put enough land under 
cultivation to raise most of the feed, 
we can give no reports as to how 
profitable a small dairy of Guernsey 
cows may be. We are slowly working 
towards a model dairy. 

Our pigs are Berkshires, and the 
piggery is in the same undeveloped 
state as the dairy. Our Shropshire 
ewes have not yet given us our first 
lambs, so we are not an authority on 
sheep raising. 

We are practising on a few chickens, 
intending to go into the poultry 
business when we know more about it. 
That and the flowers, vegetables, and 
small fruits will be Mrs. Farmer's 
special care. She hopes to take short 
university courses to add to the prac- 
tical knowledge already gained. 

The young folks are more interested 
in having a good time than in making 
the farm pay expenses. But even 

they take some pari in the work. The 
daughter and her guests pick flowers, 
shell peas, help with the housework, 
and add much to the joy of life- with 
their enthusiasm over the arrival of 
each calf, pig, lamb, and chick. The 
boy and his friends are builders of hen- 
houses and doers of innumerable small 
farm chores, besides being general 
errand boys. All of the young folks 
keep us informed as to which cherries 
are ripest and which plums are sweet- 
est, and when the lake is warm enough 
for a swim. 

Mr. Farmer is paying especial at- 
tention to rejuvenating of an old 
orchard which was one of the late 
additions to the farm. It will take 
some years for the trees to recover 
from the first pruning given them in 
many years. The apples this year 
were few, but cultivating, spraying, 
and fertilizing gave us the finest of 
fruit, and we expect to some day raise 
prize-winning apples as well as stock. 





This fall we plowed the orchard and 
sowed it to clover, timothy, and rye, 
and next spring the sheep will help 
destroy any weeds that dare appear, 
and improve the apple crop. 

Bees too are expected to do their 
share in making the trees bear fruit, 
while laying up honey for themselves 
and us. 

Our woodland is waiting for atten- 
tion. A sugar' camp will be fitted up 
in time. There is endless thinning, 
training, and planting to do on the 
hillside, thickly wooded with many 
kinds, sizes, and shapes of trees, and 
carpeted with ferns and wild flowers. 

Catering has a new charm when 
menus are suggested by a walk through 
the garden and fields. Appetites 
flourish when tempted by fruit and 
vegetables freshly picked and yellow 
cream from our own dairy. We used 
to enjoy duck at the city club, but 
now we wait for our big Pekin ducks 
with their nearly white slices of breast. 

We are too near to our neighbors to 

raise turkeys, but do not despair of 
having even those when a new breed 
arises which will bear confinement, or 
the fence around the wood lot is high 
enough to keep them on our own 

Our pheasants are just putting out 
their gay striped and iridescent 
feathers, and are as tame as chickens. 

Each spring a few new fruits, 
flowers, and vegetables are tried, and 
some of them added to the permanent 
list. This year, besides an orchard 
of greening and king apples, we have 
set out new varieties of cherries, crab 
apples, and dwarf early apples. 

We made a specialty of asters in the 
flower garden, and though the cold 
late spring and rainy summer nearly 
proved the death of the asters, we had 
such masses of wonderful sweet peas 
that the drowning out of our chosen 
specialty was forgotten. 

Swiss chard and eggplant were 
added to the vegetable garden. The 
Swiss chard throve mightily, but we 



shall try other methods with the 
eggplant another season. Garden 
peas rejoiced in the damp cool season, 
and were as plentiful as sweet peas, 
serving us until the first of October. 
Garden peas and corn seem to bear 
no relation to grocery peas and corn. 
Other vegetables may be bought, 
those never. 

Next year an iris garden and white 
raspberries are to be on the list, which 
grows with every hour we spend plan- 

The church in our community was 
built by men and women who knew 
and demanded beauty. Perhaps the 
wonderful view from the churchyard 
of Lake ChamplainandtheAdirondacks 
in the west, and the Green Mountains 
in the east, made ugliness in other 
things impossible. Certainly most of 
the buildings in the village are good.^ 

The school is excellent. We are 
more content while our boy is in the 
country school than when he must 
march with the multitude in the 
grades in town. 

Every land and water sport is in 
easy reach, whether we take our out- 
ings afoot, with horses, boats, or auto- 
mobiles. New England is too small 

for the most remote farm to be many 
hours from city pleasures, which are 
ever ready if a rainy week makes 
country life seem dull. 

We may spend the morning on the 
hillside sorting apples, and the after- 
noon at the matinee, and the apples 
will be better sorted because we feel 
that we may be part of the madding 
crowd when we choose, and the mati- 
nee will be more enjoyed because we 
know that the orchard awaits us at 
home. The nearness to every sort 
of life is one of the great charms of 
farming in New England. Most peo- 
ple want to be of the world most of the 

We are more firmly convinced each 
year that city comforts may always 
be had for the asking. Luxurious 
living and the entertainments, rush, 
and clatter of city life are easy to get. 
When winter settles down upon moun- 
tains and forests and lakes, we dare 
to leave the beauty for a time, knowing 
that Jack Frost will hold even the 
wonderful colors of the view until, 
tired of travel and the music and art 
that men can give, we come back to 
revel in God's painting and the music 
of life. 

The Guardian 

{Continued from page 5jj) 

hills, for the quiet of the old farmhouse. 
He wanted a sight of Julie's clear eyes. 

Bella without a word of reproach 
prepared his breakfast, but he ate little 
of it. After that he hung around the 
house all day strangely moody and si- 
lent. It was not until he went to work 
Monday morning that she referred to 
his debauch. 

'"Gene," she said, "are you comin' 
straight home to-night?" 

"You bet your life," he answered. 
"I've had enough of that." 

She lifted her lips as she had in the 
office of the Justice of the Peace. 

"Kiss me, 'Gene." 

He kissed her and went out. 

^Gene was not himself all that week. 

With the crisp fall air his fit of home- 
sickness grew on him. It was as 
though he had awakened from a dream. 
He went back again in his thoughts to 
the day he had left Julie by the side of 
the road, and felt again the brush of her 
lips. He cursed himself for a fool and 
grew sulky. The only thing that held 
him at home was a certain awe he felt 
for the marriage relation itself. As far 
as Bella was concerned, he would have 
left her without hesitation. She was 
able to care for herself. She could go 
back to the restaurant with him out of 
the way. Probably she would forget 
him in six months. 

It was Friday evening that he 
picked up the paper and saw an item 



that sent the color to his cheeks. It 
was to the effect that one Barney had 
been arrested for posing as a Justice 
of the Peace. The reporter discoursed 
at some length in a semi-humorous vein 
on what the probable outcome might 
be on those whom the "Justice" had 
married. Barney had done a flourishing 
business in that line, and it was roughly 
computed that at least a hundred 
couples were victims of his false 

From behind his paper 'Gene glanced 
at Bella. She was bowed over a bit of 
sewing. She had been very busy of 
late with her sewing, often working 
far into the night. The steady toil told 
on her. Her face was colorless and 
there were dark rings below her eyes. 
For a month now 'Gene had noticed 
that she was looking unusually plain. 

He took a quick survey of the room. 
It was clean as a whistle, but there was 
no breathing space. At this moment 
he felt a sense of being crowded. He 
folded the paper and shoved it in his 
pocket. He must get out of doors. 
He rose and took down his hat. Bella 
glanced up anxioulsy. 

" Oh, I'm only goin' for a walk round 
the block," he assured her irritably. 

"You won't be long?" 

"No," he answered, starting for the 

"'Gene," she called. 

"What is it?" 

"I — I wish you'd kiss me. " 

He returned, kissed her in a per- 
functory way, and went out. 

The night air was crisp, but in place 
of the earthy smell scented with the 
perfume of nuts which he knew now 
flavored the air at home, he was greeted 
with a salty foulness. To-night this 
nauseated him. He tried to get away 
from it, and at the end of a half- 
hour's walk found himself in the park. 
He sat down on a bench near an elec- 
tric light and once again read the news 
item about Barney. So, as a matter 
of fact, Bella was not his wife at all. 
She had no claim whatever upon him. 
So far as the law went, he was as free 
as when he left home. Home! 

The word gave birth to a day-dream. 

He saw himself getting off the train at 
St. Croix and walking over the road 
to the little red schoolhouse. He saw 
himself waiting outside until school 
was over. He saw Julie come out; 
saw her start at sight of him; saw 
himself stride towards her. He had 
not figured in a really dramatic episode 
for several months now. This ap- 
pealed to every sense in him. It 
brought back to him the moment of 
parting as vividly as though it had 
been yesterday. It flushed his face 
and quickened the pace of his heart. 

He rose and turned down the av- 
enue towards Rooney's. He felt the 
need of a drink, but at the door he 
hesitated. He went through his pocket 
and found a dollar bill which he didn't 
know he had. This decided him. As 
he stepped forward, he heard a voice: 

"Say, shipmate." 

Turning, he found himself confront- 
ing a bronzed thick-set man with a 
parrot on his arm. 

"What ye want?" 'Gene questioned 
with growing interest. 

"I'm down an' out," answered the 
fellow. "Give me a half for the bird 
an' he's yours. He's worth a fiver if 
he's worth a cent." 

"Where'd ye get him?" inquired 

" In South Americy. I'm just ashore 
an' I'm stony broke. " 

"South America?" exclaimed 'Gene. 

The word acted on him like magic. 


"I'll take him," 'Gene answered 

The two passed through the doors 
together, and 'Gene secured change 
at the bar. Then he reached out 
eagerly for the bird. The latter sput- 
tered a protest. 

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" he 
cawed. Then, as an afterthought, he 
added," Rio de Janeiro." 

"Where'n hell he picked up his 
cussin' is more'n I know," the sailor 

"That's all right," put in 'Gene. 
"Have a drink?" 

"Will I? My throat's one long 
stretch of sandy desert." 



"Ye say you're just back from 
South America?" 

"Docked three days ago." 

"Ye didn't happen to visit Rio de 
Janeiro, did ye?" questioned 'Gene. 

It was the only cue the man needed, 
and for an hour 'Gene listened breath- 
lessly to adventure after adventure in 
that and other ports. When he came 
out, he felt that he had been at sea 

'Gene left his parrot with a friend 
on the first floor and made his way un- 
certainly up the stairs to his own flat. 
As he expected, Bella was still up and 
still sewing. She greeted him with 
that same maddening, patient smile 
which for three weeks now had never 
left her face. He stumbled to bed. 

The next day was Saturday. 'Gene 
came home sober and with his pay en- 
velope intact. He felt a bit repent- 
ant and wished so far as possible to 
justify himself. That evening he was 
unusually decent to her. He helped 
her wash the supper dishes and swept 
the floor for her. 

"'Gene," she faltered, "sometimes 
you're so good you make me ache." 

His cheeks grew hot. 

" Don't ye b'lieve it," he said quickly. 
" Ye'd be better off without me." 

"Without you?" she faltered. "I 
wonder sometimes how I ever pulled 
it off long's I did without you. " 

"That's only the way ye feel now. " 

"More'n ever now," she answered. 

For a second she seemed upon the 
point of saying something more, but 
she was unable to muster up the cour- 
age. With a soft little laugh to her- 
self she turned away. 

'Gene was up at daylight the next 

"You lie where you be," he urged 

his wife. "I'm kinder uneasy. Guess 
I'll take a walk." 

"Where?" she asked in surprise. 

"Just round. Oh, ye needn't be 
afeerd I'm goin' to tank up. See, here's 
the money." 

With some ostentation he counted 
out his full week's salary before her 
and tossed it on the bed. 

"If I wasn't so sorter tired, I'd go 
with you, 'Gene," she said. 

"Sleep as late as you can. Don't 
bother 'bout breakfast." 

When he was dressed, he leaned over 
the bed and kissed her. With sudden 
passion she reached up her thin arms 
and drew his sandy head to her breast. 

"'Gene," she whispered, "I ain't 
never goneter scold you again, no 
matter what you does." 

"I don't mind," he answered un- 
easily. "I tell ye I'm only a bother 
anyhow. Ye'd be better off if I was 

" Don't never say that again, 'Gene," 
she pleaded. 

"It's God's truth," he answered. 

He pulled himself free and stooping 
kissed her again. Then he left. 

He stole down the stairs like a thief 
and called for his parrot. Then he 
hurried down one street after another 
until he found himself facing the sub- 
urbs and moving towards the east, 
towards St. Croix. 

The only comfort he had was that 
he didn't have a red cent in his pocket. 
Everything that he had in common 
with Bella he had left behind. That 
was what he would do if he died, and 
to all intents and purposes he was dead 
to her. This was better and saved 
her the expense of a funeral. The 
thought cheered him into smiling and 
gave more spring to his long legs. 

(To be continued) 

Newer Aspects of Pageantry 


TO New England is due the im- 
portation and fostering of that 
glowing, panoramic form of 
outdoor drama which is now 
country-wide — the art of pageantry. 
It is an art which since its incipiency 
has undergone many changes. It had 
its beginning in England in medieval 
times, forming a link between the old 
morality and miracle plays, and such 
indoor pageant dramas as "King Henry 
V." The word comes from pagus, a 
plank, probably denoting the rude 
wooden planks or floats on which the 
scenes of the early pageants were 
mounted, and then drawn in proces- 
sion through the English villages and 
towns. Very naive and restricted 
were these first pageants, and rivaled 
by the playhouses and masques of 
Elizabeth's day, the pageant fell into 
disuetude, only to be revived again 
with "pomp and circumstance" in 
this present century. But in the long 
interim the matter and spirit of the 
pageant had greatly changed. It was 
no longer the crude affair of medieval 
times. It was still acted in the open 
air, but on a greensward instead of a 
plank. Great trees and ivied castle 
walls formed its background: in as far 
as possible the participants played the 
parts of their own ancestors, and the 
pageant became the chronicle of a 
town told in stirring scenes that swept 
from the dawn of that town's history 
to the present day. Music, spoken 
speech, pantomime, dancing, singing, — 
all the arts were combined to make per- 
fect the art of pageantry. The pag- 
eant fostered local pride, and woke a 
new interest in history and the out- 
door drama. It crossed the sea, and, 
like many another new idea, received 
its primal impetus in New England. 


The St. Gaudens Pageant, pro- 
duced in Cornish, N. H., some six 
years ago, was the first American 
pageant, soon followed by the His- 
torical Pageant of Springfield, Mass. 

Since then town after town has been 
dramatized, but though the spirit of 
pageantry has spread beyond New 
England's borders, it is in New Eng- 
land that it still remains most vital 
and significant. And while the Ameri- 
can pageant lacks in a measure the 
magnificence of the English pageants, 
it substitutes ingenuity for splendor, 
new ideas for ornateness. 

The past season has been partic- 
ularly rich in pageants. In more 
than twenty New England towns this 
communal form of drama has re- 
vitalized the past. It has given a new 
meaning to Old Home Week, and has 
lent itself as a colorful means of cele- 
brating the anniversary of the found- 
ing of various towns. Among these 
Miss Margaret McLaren Eager's his- 
torical pageant of Great Barrington, 
Vt., was a notable example, for it por- 
trayed not only a history of the town, 
but included a portion of one of the 
earliest American plays written by one 
of the town's inhabitants some hun- 
dred and fifty years ago. This was a 
fine example of the outdoor communal 
pageant, pure and simple. But the 
experimental spirit is abroad, and 
other forms of pageantry have begun 
to make their appearance. The little 
village of Tyringham, in the Berk- 
shires, long famous as the place in 
which Hawthorne wrote his "Tangle- 
wood Tales," gave as the celebration 
of its hundred and fiftieth anniversary 
the Hawthorne Pageant (by Con- 
stance D'Arcy Mackay), a pageant 
which, instead of celebrating the history 




of the place, celebrated instead the 
genius of its once presiding spirit. 
The scenes, linked with choruses and 
dances, were taken from Hawthorne's 
works, and the pageant was acted 
(quite appropriately) on the lawn of 
Tanglewood, one of Tyringham's 
many beautiful estates. This was a 
literary form of the pageant, yet still 
local and applicable. It is in such 
pageants as these, perhaps, that will 
be found the answer to the question 
that is now being asked, After the 
historic pageant, what? After a 
town has had a local historic pageant, 
what can it do next? 

The question is a pertinent one. 
Throughout the country there is a 
newly awakened delight in dramatic 
action, in community expression, in 
the joyful sense of participation, of 
working together for something defi- 
nite. Must all this cease when a 
town has had its history dramatized? 
Is there to be no further use for the 
open-sir stage, the grand stand, the 
home-made costumes, the heirloom 
"properties"? For the pageant has 

other uses than those of local cen- 
tenary celebration. It is of national 
importance also. A number of cities 
have already discovered that the pag- 
eant is an ideal form of commemora- 
tion for Memorial Day, Patriots' Day, 
and for fitly celebrating the Fourth of 
July. These national holidays call for 
something more than local themes. 
Their pageant-dramas must deal with 
episodes of national import. The 
leading characters in their scenes must 
be the heroes who belong to America 
as a whole, and not to a restricted 
locality. It becomes evident that be- 
sides community pageants there must 
be national pageants of artistic and 
educational value, an answer to the 
recurrent query of what a town can do. 
This is a new idea, and it has already 
been demonstrated that it is an effect- 
ive one. For its safe and sane 
Fourth this year the city of Boston, 
through its Citizens' Celebration Com- 
mittee, produced in Franklin Park 
Miss Mackay's "Pageant of Patriots," 
unique in that it was the first children's 
historic pageant of America, a pageant 




dealing with the youth of American 
heroes. Five hundred youthful citi- 
zens from the North, South, and 
West ends of the city took part in it. 

Here indeed was one of the newest 
aspects of pageantry, for the characters 
portrayed were (with a few exceptions) 
of the same age as the children who 
acted them. In one episode young 
Priscilla Mullins formed the central 
figure, and the occupations and manner 
of the youthful Pilgrims were clearly 
shown. In another episode George 
Washington appeared as a lad en- 
grossed with the adventures and diffi- 
culties of his first surveying trip; still 
another scene showed an encounter 
between young Daniel Boone and the 
Indians — a bit of pioneer life savor- 
ing of wilderness and hardship. In 
contrast to this was a glimpse of Bos- 
ton Common on a summer afternoon in 

1720 with young Benjamin Franklin 
dividing his time between flying his 
kite and selling his father's candles. 
There he meets a quaintly garbed old 
crystal gazer who predicts his future 
greatness, and presently he falls asleep 
and dreams of what she has told him. 
In the dream appears the court of 
France, and an older white-haired 
Franklin, now world famous, being 
presented to Marie Antoinette. A 
fete is given in his honor, and this gave 
opportunities for charming stately 
dances by hosts of little girls who repre- 
sented shepherdesses and milkmaids 
from the Betit Trianon, with dresses 
of pale blue and violet and rose show- 
ing rainbow-like against the green. 
In all the pageant dialogue the real 
words of Franklin, Washington, and 
Boone were used; and participants and 
spectators were made to feel the ac- 
tuality of the scenes presented. The 
plea for true patriotism ran like a leit- 
motive through the pageant, and again 
and again it was brought home to the 
children that the great men of America 
succeeded in the face of tremendous 
difficulties by the power of their own 
efforts. Little citizens were shown 
that there was "a chance for all." 
The stirring prologue, spoken by the 
Spirit of Patriotism, bade them "keep 
their purpose high and true." And 
the great audience of some six or eight 
thousand people made instant response. 
Thus, phase by phase, a new form of 
drama is being upbuilt, not by the 
theaters, but by the citizens of Amer- 
ica themselves, — a form of drama 





instinct with life, purpose, and variety. 
Its results and its future can hardly be 
overestimated. Its spirit and its 
scope are still growing. It is ever 
changing, ever new. It is bringing 

inspiration to the leisured, pleasure and 
zest to the toilworn, and it is teach- 
ing the eager immigrant the true and 
glorious history of "the land of prom- 


Music for Children 


WHEN you speak of your child's 
education I wonder whether 
you have music in mind as 
a part of it. Personally I 
do not believe that there is any mental 
occupation which is more capable of 
making for broad-minded, sympathetic 
perception and refinement than is 
music. For some time we have been 
accustomed to witnessing with delight 
the increased progress and interest 
which little folks show when their men- 
tal tasks are picturesquely presented to 
them. Music is most susceptible to 
interesting treatment, and it yields 
readily to picturesque presentation, — 
almost more so than any other subject; 
but how many poor little innocents 
one sees trudging to their music lesson 
with lack of interest or even dread in 
their hearts because it means a tire- 
some lot of "musts" and"don'ts" and 
dry explanations which they hardly 

Mabel Madison Watson has made it 
possible to make the elements of music 
study infinitely more interesting to the 
little learner. Instead of asking it to 
try to remember the placing of the 
eight notes on either side of middle C, 
Miss Watson has contrived "First 
Visits to Tuneland," — a collection of 
twenty-three rhymes and tunes which 
gradually lead up and down to the 
octave on each side of middle C, using 
the C scale fingering and always five 
note positions. Children are past 
masters in the art of "make-believe," 
and Miss Watson has made the " tunes " 
tell the same story that the rhymes 
told. I can easily imagine the 

earnestness of a little tot's trying to 
make "The Old Man in Leather" say, 
"How do you do, and How do you do, 
and How do you do again," as vividly 
on the piano keys as though the old 


man were within them, and lo and be- 
hold the little tot has been uncon- 
sciously getting hold of the rhythm of 
triplets by a perfectly natural process, 
and it has been having a delightful 
imaginative experience at the same 
time. In other words, the child has 
been having a profitable good time. 
Think of the fun of learning the bass 
notes of the octave down from middle 
C by making them say, "Ride away, 
Ride away, Johnnie shall ride, and he 
shall have Pussy cat tied to one side, 
and he shall have little dog tied to the 
other, and Johnnie shall ride to see his 
grandmother." It is simply a means 
of making musical results come per- 
fectly naturally. Miss Watson had 
this in mind when she says in her pref- 
ace, "They are not only to be correctly 
read through, but should be played as 
rapidly as one would speak the words 
and with the same accents. Do not 
be satisfied unless the piano 'talks' 
as easily and intelligently as the words 
can be spoken. This should be ac- 
complished by review playing. By 
frequent consecutive repetitions the 
pieces would be learned by heart 
instead of being read at sight." "Taffy 
was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, 
Taffy came to my house and stole a 
piece of beef, etc.;" and in giving 
Taffy his just dues the enthusiasm of 
the little pupil, in trying to make the 
tones "act it out," has accomplished 
some sturdy strengthening of fourth 
and fifth fingers, a considerable sensing 
of what a phrase means, and excellent 
drill in reading from changing clefs. 
These little pieces can not be excelled, 
I am sure, in their usefulness nor in 
their ability to fascinate the child, and 
I am sure that by the time he has 
reached the last "tune" in the book, — 
"Ding Dong Bell," — he will have 



made considerable use of his imagina- 
tion, he will have acquired quite a 
little practice in finger and muscle 
strengthening and will have gained in 
development of concentration, and he 
will have the pulsing of rhythms 
naturally induced; all this accruance 
is far more valuable and far in excess 
of the possibilities of the usual unin- 
teresting struggle which this stage of 
musical study usually means. Also, 
all of these little "tunes" make ex- 
cellent material for first lessons in 

As a sequel to "First Visits to Tune- 
land" comes "Twelve Magic Keys to 
Tuneland," which comprises thirty 
pieces in all the major keys. There 
are "Snowflakes" which fall down the 
C scale and "Four and twenty sailors 
who went to kill a snail," and in trying 
to run away they scoot up the G scale 
and "The Three Wise Men of Gotham" 
in E major, and a chimney sweep who 
drops "to the bottom from the top" 
in A flat major, and some wonderful 
happening for each major key. "A 
Second Trip to Tuneland" continues 
the excursions into imagination, in the 
different major keyes. "Three Black 
Crows" and "Old King Cole" are 
little dramas in tuneland. 

"Warps and Woof" are eleven little 
tunes and rhymes for independent part 
playing, and in her preface Miss Watson 
says, "Did you ever sing a 'Round'? 
Some one starts a tune, after a measure 
or two some one else starts it, keeping 
always that much behind the first 
voice, perhaps several others to join in 
one by one until they are all singing 
the same notes or words together. It 
is like a game of 'Follow the Leader.' 
Very few tunes would sound well sung 
in this way. When one is adapted to 
such treatment it is called a canon. 
A small pupil of mine always calls 
canons 'copy-cats.'" 

Each one of the eleven different 
tunes is treated to at least two ways of 
development, — a veritable lesson in 
counterpoint and the foundation for 
excellent training in listening to the 
different parts without mental confu- 
sion. The children who are drilled 

with these eleven tunes and their 
transformings will certainly not flinch 
quite as hopelessly when they come to 
Bach Inventions as have some that I 
have seen. 

Besides these eleven tunes and 
rhymes, the book contains two pages of 
examples of different ways to treat a 
theme (to be played and explained), 
and four themes which are to be 
written out in as many ways as you 

These works that I have just men- 
tioned are as interesting to children 
as are picture books. In fact, they are 
picture books with tones to be used 
for crayons. Miss Watson has shown 
a unique and sympathetic understand- 
ing of the most accurate and telling 
means for appeal to the child mind. 
With such excellent means at hand 
as these works by Miss Watson, the 
most telling results are obtained from 
children but three and four years old. 
And in order that children may not be 
allowed to become foreigners to the 
meaning of music, they should be- 
come acquainted with it at an early 

A little more advanced — first 
grade — are the interesting "Summer- 
time Stories," — five rhymes and tunes : 
"Merry are the Bells," "Goldilocks," 
"The Fair Maid," "Little Streams" 
and "The Soldier Dog." Also, '|Out 
of Doors," — six characteristic pieces 
which have such suggestive titles (to 
aid their receiving a dramatic por- 
trayal) as "Round and Round we 
Go," "Hop Scotch," "Let's go Walk- 
ing," etc. "Scenes from Tuneland" 
are six little pieces on five notes, — 
"The Sheep Pasture," "In the Long 
Grass," "The Dancing Dolls," "Moc- 
casin Dance," etc. 

The "Children's Party" is a set of 
six compositions which have the same 
clever usefulness for "first pieces"; 
they are "Tableaux, a Dream Waltz," 
which will fascinate completely, and it 
contains the same contrivance for un- 
conscious technical gain. The "Jig- 
Saw Puzzle," "Music Box," "Battle- 
dore and Shuttlecock," "Playing 
Horse," and "Going to Jerusalem" 



are the others of the "Children's 
Party,"and they are all most attractive. 
The "Marionette Ballet" might be 
called a musical Punch and Judy 
show, and fully that interesting will it 
be to its little players. There is the 
" Harlequin," " Pierrette's Waltz," 
"Columbine's Dance," "The Fairy 
Queen," "Puncinello's Dream" and — 
grand culmination of excitement — 
the "Wedding March of Pierrot and 
Pierrette," "Pierrette's Waltz" and 
"The Fairy Queen" quite pretentious 
little first grade pieces; also the 
"Wedding March," which will make 
the little player as proud as can be when 

he acquires it. This "Marionette Bal- 
let" is the most fascinating set of first- 
grade pieces that I have seen. That 
Miss Watson has imagination in abun- 
dance herself, and that through it she 
has given us music for youthful 
players that is definitely artistic in its 
appeal to and its call for imagination 
in the child, means that the bigger 
growth of the child and the more 
sincere love of him for music is able to 
be called forth. Miss Watson has 
done much toward helping to make 
music an interesting and greater 
reality for children. 

The Old Colony Background 



Won it by the axe and harrow, 

Held it by the axe and sword, 
Bred a race with brawn and marrow, 

From no alien over-lord. 
Gained the right to guide and govern, 

Then with labor strong and free 
Forged the land, a shield of Empire 

Silver Sea to Silver Sea. 

D. S. Scott. 

THE stalwart Pilgrim fathers, 
wading through the curling 
surf from their shallop (a 
"bow-shoote" distance) to 
the welcome sands at the point of 
Cape Cod, and bearing in their arms 
the loyal Pilgrim mothers, coming 
ashore to do their belated washing, 
make a homely and amusing, but very 
significant, picture of the landing of 
our "Mayflower" ancestors. The pres- 
ence of those women betokens that 
the sea-worn home-seekers had come 
to stay — to breed a new race which 
should perpetuate their vital principles 
as an abiding influence in the land. 
The genesis of this new provincial type, 
now known throughout the world as 
the "Down East Yankee," was in this 
Old Colony, and on Cape Cod — a 

"Clam Yankee," the Dixie folks call 

Those descendants of Norman and 
Saxon brought sturdy bodies, evolved 
by long warfare against other races, and 
a moral fiber nerved by religious con- 
viction and stiffened by persecution. 
Their most conspicuous quality was 
courage — not so much courage to 
come (for in time of persecution the 
line of least resistance is to migrate), 
but courage to stay in this new country, 
to put the plough into this stubborn 
soil and not turn back with their re- 
turning ship. It is this "staying qual- 
ity" which compels our reverence. 

Hunger brought them hither — 
soul-hunger for the worship of God 
according to their light. With heroic 
strength of mind they held tenaciously 
to their Nicene Creed, and rebelled 
against formalism and ecclesiastical 
pomp; tolerated no intermediary be- 
tween themselves and their Maker; 
recognized two sources of power — 
God and the devil; thought it difficult 
to tally a happy life with a virtuous 
one, guided their lives by the King 
James Version (loath to question its 



teachings); and considered piety the 
chief end of man.* They felt they 
had crossed the ocean in fulfillment of 
some divine revelation of human 
progress. The beckoning finger of 
Cape Cod was a providential guide 
to this location. 

Peculiar characteristics differentiate 
this Old Colony Yankee from the rest 
of mankind. The natural features of a 
country are said to mould its inhabit- 
ants. In this Old Colony there are no 
mountains, great rivers, waterfalls, or 
prairies. The four indigenous factors 
influencing them were, the surround- 
ing sea, the fickle climate, the stingy 
soil, and the gloomy wilderness con- 
cealing treacherous neighbors. 

The sea invites exploration, de- 
mands a wide horizon, inspires ex- 
pectancy and curiosity. The capri- 
cious climate is a test of physical 
quality, with its range of weather from 
arctic to tropic on short notice, and 
compels the Yankee in self-protection 
to become a close observer of nature, 
and may explain his remarkable pro- 
pensity for guessing. To fortify his 
constitution against these mercurial 
changes, he discovered that hard cider 
and Jamaica rum were agreeable ac- 
cessories, driving out fever in summer 
and warming his stomach in winter; 
and incidentally of value in bargaining 
with red men or in prolonging the 
pastoral call. The Yankee was not 
always a good match for John Barley- 
corn. He was sometimes trundled 
home in a wheelbarrow from the mus- 
ter; after an installation festival, 
ministers were known to be gently 
tucked in bed by kind-hearted parish- 
ioners; gin-sling, toddy, flip, and 
punch gave Saturday a Donnybrook 
finish; in Taunton, the store-town 
of the Old Colony, was a shed on 
Jockey Lane known as the "Morgue," 
where maudlin victims snored off their 
week-end sprees. f 

* John D. Long has pointed out that they were 
not all "saints"; the varied elements of human 
nature cropped out in the first shipload. 

t There were then, in proportion to the popu- 
lation, five times as many resorts in Taunton , 
licensed to sell liquors, as there are to-day. The 
public conscience did not look upon this drinking 
habit as an enormous sin. 

Damp weather produced pulmonary 
complaints. The demise of the New 
England winter was accompanied by a 
train of ailments. Wells stagnant in 
summer bred autumn fevers, which 
carried off the little ones. Salt meats 
and heavy foods produced lank, dys- 
peptic bodies. "Tell me, what you 
eat, and I'll tell you what you are," 
says a Frenchman. Diet determines 
mental and moral capacity. Vege- 
tarianism was an unknown virtue. 
Pies of mince-meat, pumpkin, apple, 
chicken, clam, and rhubarb were a 
mainstay, interlarded with "Injun" 
pudding, doughnuts, sausages, hogs- 
head chesse, "b'iled dinner," cod- 
fish balls, johnny-cakes, baked beans, 
succotash, and pandowdy. 

From the soil they acquired a 
quality called "grit." 

"Winning by inches, 

Holding by clinches, 

Slow to contention, but slower to quit; 

Now and then failing, 

Never once quailing, 

Let us thank God for our Saxon grit." 

Inland it was so rocky that they 
declared the ballast from the Ark 
went overboard there during the 
flood; toward the shore it was so 
sandy, some one remarked, that the 
farmers might be judged insane, like 
the feigning Ulysses when he ploughed 
the seashore at Ithaca; down on the 
Cape the thin garment of soil was 
sadly "out at heels and elbows." In 
places the turf was sown thick with 
arrowheads and domestic mementoes 
of the vanishing Indian. 

How to deal with the aborigines was a 
vexatious problem. The newly arrived 
white men found themselves between 
two fires; Canonicus in the Rhode 
Island territory was hostile to Mas- 
sasoit in southern Massachusetts. 
The red men dwelling in this corner of 
the Atlantic seaboard were hardly 
more developed than the beavers 
building their dams along the rivers, 
the deer that migrated in families 
through the forests, or the colonies of 
crows holding caucus in the treetops. 
The Indian had made little advance- 
ment beyond the making of a bark 
canoe to cross the ponds; pointing his 



arrows with flint and eagle claws; 
baking clams in seaweed; fertilizing 
corn with fish; and curing skins of 
moose or wild cat to provide clothing 
and shelter. Along comes the white 
man, who proceeds to subjugate the 
four elements of air, earth, fire, and 
water, as vassals to do his work. He 
cuts down the primeval timber and 
fashions comfortable dwelling-houses 
(often with gambrel roof, in memory 
of the Pilgrims' sojourn in Holland); 
he harnesses the rivers to make nails, 
boards, and cider; he taxes the wind 
to turn sails for grinding corn into 
meal; he digs and smelts bog-ore into 
rude implements. With patient labor 
he converts the forests into pastures, 
the pastures into cattle, the cattle into 
beef, the beef into brawny arms to fell 
more forests and drive his enemies 
from the earth. These discoveries the 
red children of the forest had not 
dreamed of; even as those pioneers 
had no vision of our modern electric 
servants and aerial conveyances. 

The red men were, for the most part, 
treated contemptuously by the white 
men as treacherous vermin. King 
Philip was persecuted with barbaric 
ferocity; the head of the Princess 
Weetamoe was displayed on a spontoon 
in Taunton to terrify Indian captives; 
Annawan, after his capture by the 
daring Captain Church, was taken to 
Plymouth and executed, in spite of 
Church's promise that his life should 
be spared if he surrendered without 
resistance. Yet there was some show 
of justice. Governor Bradford proudly 
recorded that every foot of the Old 
Colony had been paid for, though the 
Indians often sold their lands for a 
mess of pottage. Several white men 
were once hanged for the murder of an 
Indian, but we imagine these white 
men were "undesirable citizens" of 
the tiny republic. There was an at- 

tempt to Christianize the savages. 
Coadjutors with Eliot — Bourne and 
Treat of the Cape, Mayhew of Mar- 
tha's Vineyard, and Danforth of 
Taunton — were measurably success- 
ful, leading a large number of converts 
into semi-civilization, teaching them 
to get a poor living *by farming and 
whaling — the latter a not uncon- 
genial sport. But praying Indians 
were a decadent race, and at Mashpee, 
Eastham, and Assawampsett aroused 
almost as much suspicion as their 
unregenerate brothers. Having little 
regard for property rights, they walked 
into town and took what they needed 
without apology. Many became 
slaves; one, named "Quock," was 
long in the family of Ephraim Leonard. 
Miscegenation with the imported 
blacks produced a less savage but no 
less fierce-looking type of man. The 
Indians were more capable of adopting 
the white man's vices than his virtues. 
"Fire-water," first offered them on 
their meeting with Governor Carver, 
was much to their liking and contrib- 
uted toward accelerating King Phil- 
ip's War a few years later. Algon- 
quins circled in the rear of the seaside 
settlements "like the scythe of death 
ready to mow them down at any 
moment." Scalping-knife and toma- 
hawk brought dread alarm to young 
and old. Often the valiant house- 
wife sat in the crotch of a tree with 
loaded flintlock to protect her hus- 
band's scalp as he hoed the growing 

* These Algonquins first used the word "Yan- 
kee." Having no "1" in their language, they 
could come no nearer to pronouncing the word 
"English" than "Yengeesh," which became 
corrupted into "Yankee." A towering, gi- 
gantic, iron statue of King Philip, with uplifted 
tomahawk and full savage regalia, should be 
erected on the summit of Mount Hope as a 
memorial tribute of the Yankee to the former 
tenants of this land, and an object lesson in 


■«^« WHMUH . HI 1 1 *